Young Holmes - A Lecture in Crimson
by Toa andrew
Summary: A young John Watson begins a new chapter of his life at the University of London, bringing the grief of his father's death with him. Soon finding himself entangled in a world of murder and a city coming to breaking point, John must discover himself as everything he knows is tested by his mysterious new roommate, and the dangerous life he leads.
1. Chapter 1 - A Master of Deduction

To those who may read this piece.

The following story is not a work of fiction. Although this tale may seem bizarre, or even unbelievable, I can assure all that every word is pure truth. I myself still unravel and feel heartbreak in the fact that I was a part of it, that I was the one who would know and work with the greatest pupil England has ever known. He was not most known for his aptitude in exams, or even the intellect well beyond his years that he possessed. It was the adventures he and I found ourselves in, and the dangers we overcame. He was a master of the unknown and the unobserved, a genius of deduction, but most of all a champion of the law. You might question how a mere student of the University of London could solve some of the city's greatest murder mysteries, but that is because you did not know him. You never saw the stubborn, infuriating and yet brilliant mind that was Sherlock Holmes, or the dangerous rivals that spawned from his abilities. I am John. H. Watson, and this is our story.

 **Chapter 1 - A Master of Deduction**

"John?"

I could decipher only a whisper through my racing mind.

In those first days the future was the last thing I wanted to think about. I remember sitting alone in that bleak room, not physically, but mentally. The voice of my mother was just as blurred as the voice of the Councillor. It was no more than she expected. I was not the only one to walk through that door carrying the pain of loss, and I certainly wouldn't be the last. It was present in my mother but in front of me she held such a strong determination that it fractured any image I could have of her own suffering. She kept those moments to herself, when she knew she was truly alone. She didn't think I could hear her, but through thin walls, my ears had no choice but to listen.

At first I wasn't sure who the whisper had come from. My confusion ended when the Councillor continued with her rhetoric, not knowing how much I had actually taken in.

"It is alright to talk about how you feel. It isn't weak to let it out."

My silence continued. Not a tear had been shed. I didn't have the inner strength for that. A calm and regrettable silence is how my mind coped with the loss of the man I once called father. I felt the hard wood of his cane between my fingers. It was his prized possession. I had taken it when mother wasn't looking and it had been by my side ever since. At times I had found myself leaning against it as I walked, almost imitating him.

"You know you can talk to me, John. Please… don't try to bottle it up." It was my mother this time, her voice soothing but its message inevitably in vain.

Several sessions mirrored each other, all with the same level of success. In the end, it really was up to me to try and understand what I was feeling. I found myself staring at photographs of us together. My father's life was cut short by his duty. Maybe it was mine to live the life he could not. Something altered in my head. The prospect of my own future is what would be my focus to escape despair. I would live the life Father could not. I already had a knack for the sciences, biology being a personal favourite. I'm sure I got that from him.

A new vigor was born. I studied as hard as I could with the grand goal of becoming a doctor. I figured that if I could go on to save lives, then his death would not be in vain. I still remember my mother practically jumping for joy the very moment I read aloud my acceptance letter from the University of London. Now there was no going back. Now it was time to prove myself to the man I could now only see through photos. As fate would have it, on the day my mother and I visited the Criterion restaurant for a celebration dinner, I caught sight of an old friend passing by.

"Stamford, I don't believe it!" I called out to gain his attention.

At first he didn't seem to recognize me, then I saw his eyes light up as it clicked.

"John!? Jesus, what are the odds of bumping into you?"

We had similar goals at school but his family had moved away during the last year, right before I started college. I explained to him about my acceptance, and about my father.

"That's hard, man. It must have been a blow. I'm sorry, I remember you said he was abroad?"

"Afghanistan." I clarified.

It didn't take him much to put two and two together.

"I'm sure he would be proud of you."

I knew he would say that. Practically everyone I told said it, in one way or another, as if they knew every thought that went through his head when he was alive. Speaking about him at length made me uncomfortable.

"Maybe I will see you around campus some time? Have you been given any accommodation or are you commuting?" he asked.

"Accommodation." I answered him.

I hadn't had the chance to check the place out yet.

"Anywhere nearby, may I ask?" he was always an inquisitive sort. Perhaps too inquisitive at times.

"Yeah, somewhere called…" I took out a scrunched up piece of paper from my pocket in case I forgot. "…221b Baker Street. I haven't seen the place yet."

The bright expression on his face disappeared. It was like I had just insulted him.

"No….well, it won't be boring, I'll tell you that."

His reaction puzzled me.

"How come?" I asked him.

"You haven't met your new roommate have you?" he shook his head in a disappointed manner.

"No, like I said I haven't seen the place. He's not messy is he?"

Stamford let out an amused grunt.

"You have no idea. He is, how can I say it? Different. A genius really, depending on how you see him."

What a strange thing. I was under the impression that he would be a student like me, yet Stamford described him as a genius.

"A genius at University. I suppose study comes easy to him?"

Stamford seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. It came to my attention that it was a topic he had never considered.

"You know, I don't really know what he studies. He seems to be knowledgeable about anything asked of him. Chemistry, other sciences. It just, clicks for him. Actually, this morning he was in one of the chemistry labs, I could introduce you if you want?"

It was a generous gesture. I suppose he remembered the days I use to keep a particular bully off of his back. You don't think about things like that at the time but now such an action had given me a free favour to spend. I said goodbye to my mother, who was still adamant that she triple checked I had all of my bags with me. I kept my father's old cane strapped to my backpack and headed off, looking back one last time. I can still remember that last expression on her face. It was a look of a proud yet scared mother. She knew the pain I still carried, the cane being a symbol of it but she knew she couldn't keep me from the world. It was time to fly the nest and become something new, even if deep down she felt like she had lost both of us.

The campus was no less impressive than I had expected. The first week of the semester was about to begin so new and older students alike were preparing for their year of study.

"Actually, I better cover myself here. If it turns out you don't get along, don't blame me." Stamford jested.

"Why wouldn't we?" I asked with a sense of misunderstanding that feels foolish looking back.

"Your roommate isn't the most approachable person. Don't get me wrong, he works hard but the way he tends to go about is a bit, well, cold-blooded."

That didn't seem too bad to me.

"He's passionate about what he studies. That's not a problem. At least we may have some decent discussion."

Stamford didn't look convinced.

"Not so much a conversation, more a one sided lecture I would imagine."

Without further ado, Stamford and I entered one of the chemistry labs. The room was filled with an overpowering smell, and darkened by the blinds that were pulled down just enough for small bars of light to enter. I could imagine myself spending many hours in the place during my future studies. Stamford spluttered and attempted to swat away the smell, as if that would be of any use. Clearly he was less inclined towards the atmosphere than I was, I myself having spent much time in College labs.

A single student was looking intently under a microscope. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the top of the workbench. I couldn't quite make out the tune but it didn't sound like anything modern as far as I could decipher from it. So engrossed in his work he was that he didn't even notice our presence, or he chose to ignore it. Either way, Stamford grew impatient and cleared his throat. Still the student carried on with his work.

"Sherlock."

He reacted to the call of his name. He jolted upwards slightly, his brow lowering as if he had heard a distant nose, despite us being barely ten feet from him. I got my first look at my roommate. He seemed normal enough, with dark, short cut hair that had been gelled back smartly. His piercing glare was less welcoming, but at the sight of us it became a smile.

"Stamford. Twice in one day. Is this a special occasion?"

I hadn't expected his voice to sound so, sophisticated. A student who had not even reached his twenties spoke with a manner so calculated.

"It is for you. This is John, an old friend of mine, and your new roommate."

His eyes darted from spot to spot, as if he was scanning me. He cocked his head after a moment and gave me a smile that seemed fake.

"Then it is a special occasion indeed. Pleasure to meet you John."

I shook his hand for the first time. The strength of his grip gave away the very little effort he was putting into our meeting.

"Good to meet you. I'm sorry if we are interrupting."

I was sure from his demeanor that we were no more than an inconvenience to him in that moment, even if he cared not to admit it.

"Tell me John, does the phrase 'ABO test' mean anything to you?" He asked me, his face not giving away why.

"Yes, it tells us that people have one of four blood types, depending on what antigens are in their red blood cells."

A great grin shone across his face as if I had just passed some sort of test. He placed his hand on my back and began to scurry me over towards his work bench.

"Exactly! It's such important knowledge in the medical profession, for sure. Without knowing what type of blood runs through your patient's veins, transfusions are guess work. Without the correct type you have a transfusion reaction."

I wasn't sure where he was going with his train of thought. Stamford didn't know what he studied precisely, so perhaps I had got lucky and was now roommates with a fellow doctor in training.

"Imagine however, all the discoveries we are yet to make of a far more sinister nature. Think of what we could do if, say, these discoveries could be used for criminal cases."

I had to admit I was intrigued, if not by what he was saying then by the sheer satisfaction he expressed as he told me.

"I don't quite see how blood type could help criminal investigations any more than they do." I told him.

"No, broaden your scope. What if such tests could be sped up? What if data could be collated and analyzed within hours? I am on the edge of one of those great discoveries John, the very edge of changing the future!"

I really hoped he was right, because he was starting to sound full of himself. He no longer had his hand on my back, now he was peeping through his microscope once again.

"I was on the very verge of my first breakthrough. They were lost and yet the answer was with me. Mason, you wouldn't have gotten out of the country if they had listened." He seemed to be talking to himself.

"Not still going on about that are you?" Stamford asked him.

"Mason, Levevre, Samson. I will go on about them as long as we continue to lack the power to bring men like them to justice."

Stamford was quite amused by the whole thing, while I was still trying to discover if Sherlock was for real or not.

"You could write a book on all the times you 'let them go', Sherlock."

The more they spoke the more I started to understand how often Sherlock must have rambled on about these discoveries of his. The back of his hands were discoloured and on his right were a number of scars and old cuts. I broke my gaze when I realized that he was looking directly at me again.

"Your father was a veteran from Afghanistan, correct?"

I was speechless. How could he have possibly have known that!? His use of the word 'was', was sharp to hear.

"How do you know that?" My voice was quiet and my lips barely moved. He didn't look fazed by my reaction at all.

"The cane you keep trying to conceal in your backpack. Vintage, old wood with a distinct bullet mark just below the handle."

My father had told me the story of how it had got there. I barely noticed it myself anymore, and yet here was this student who knew exactly what it was from a single glance.

"My condolences."

There was little emotion in his words. Stamford looked awkward beside me, he himself having got a taste of how the subject made me feel.

"I better be off. John hasn't actually seen your flat yet so-"

"I'll ensure he arrives safely. Thank you Stamford, I'm sure I will see you again very soon."

Stamford made his exit swiftly, leaving me alone with my peculiar roommate.

"How did you know about the cane?" I asked him.

I spotted a slight grin in the corner of his mouth.

"Deduction."

A single word, not much to go on, but maybe that was who this young man was.

"Well John, I am about done for the day. I'm sure you are anxious to see where you will be living for the next couple of years." His speech was monotone, the excitement he gained from his work having all but disappeared.

He seemed like he was going through the motions, as if our meeting was some string of required actions and words. Perhaps I was thinking too much about this odd character. Maybe it was just his nature and from what Stamford had told me, that thought process seemed about right.

Baker Street wasn't too far from the campus grounds. Sherlock remained quiet, only breaking his reserved silence to keep me on the right track. He carried himself with a rehearsed vigor, each step in line with the one before it. I hadn't got a good look at him in the dark laboratory but out in the London streets I could see it all. He was like an echo from the past. This is the way people use to carry themselves. I hadn't been in London long, but I knew that the people who lived here had changed. I don't think anyone had given Sherlock the memo. I wondered if his parents were traditionalists.

I was pleasantly surprised by the rooms at Baker Street. There were two comfortable bedrooms and a large living room, with two windows that let in a homely warmth. It certainly looked nothing like the kind of place you would expect two University students to stay. It had an old quality to it. Perhaps it was the red wallpaper, or maybe the lack of modern furnishings and rows of tattered books that aligned shelves on the left wall. I can still remember the first time I heard the ticking of that old clock that stared back at me, its hands counting down every second we spent without a word between each other.

"I trust it is to your liking?"

I'd forgotten that he was even there for a moment.

"Err, yes. It's fine."

He had already left the sitting room before I could turn to face him. With him out of view, I took the opportunity to take a gander at some of his many books. I thought they would shine a light on what my new roommate was studying. They only served to add further confusion. There were textbooks and theories written for well over a dozen different topics on the first shelf alone. At first I thought he was into the same line of study as myself, what with the first row containing biology texts and studies of the human anatomy. That idea was shot down when I saw the rest. I thought at first that his interest was in criminology, considering what he had said to me with such excitement on campus. The books on his shelf didn't serve to support that theory however.

"You are free to perusal through them. As long as you put them back in order, of course."

I turned immediately, as if I had just been caught doing something distasteful.

"Oh, thanks. I was just wondering-"

"That is a mystery, isn't it?"

He already knew what I was thinking. I was starting to see why this person could get on others nerves. He was already ahead of your own thought processes. It was something I would have to get used to. Sherlock continued to watch me as I analyzed the place. Cobwebs were strung in the corners of the sitting room, and a layer of dust was beginning to form over the furnishings like snow. It was a different story for other parts of the room. The books, the sofa, the desk against the right wall, they were all immaculate. Even the papers atop the desk were placed to give the user ample room and access to them.

I left the sitting room and sat on my bed for what would be the first of many times. The place suddenly felt very alien. This is what I would call home, yet nothing screamed John Watson. I didn't bring any of my old posters with me, I was regretting it. The room was darker than I would have liked, with only a small window above a dusty side cabinet. The bed was comfortable at least. I placed my father's cane against the bed frame.

I would be staying in a hotel for the first night until my stuff was delivered the next morning, so I thought there was no harm in leaving it there. It was harder than I thought, taking each step towards the bedroom door with the cane behind me. I had kept it close to hand for years, like a ghost that comforted me at night. I felt like I was betraying it, leaving it there in a strange place. "I have to do it," I said to myself. If I couldn't move on for a night, how could it ever happen?

I fought through my doubt and closed the door behind me. Sherlock remained in the sitting room, staring intently out of the window with his fingers entangled behind his back. This truly was like no one I had ever met before. Only time would tell how different.


	2. Chapter 2 - Vices and Shortcomings

I was up early the next day. I'd like to say that it was because I was punctual, but the truth was I had barely slept that night. The mattress in my hotel room was soft enough, and no outside noises prevented my rest. It was the noises in my head that were the matter. Thoughts encircled my concentration, thoughts of where my life was heading, and thoughts of my peculiar roommate. I had reached out for my father's cane, only to have my memory hit me like a truck. I had thought it lost for just a moment before it did so. Old habits were no good anymore.

The moving van had already arrived before me. The landlady had been nice enough to answer. I watched as my possessions were carried up the stairs.

"Oh, you must be John. Nice to meet you at last." Her handshake was warm and welcoming.

"I'm sorry about the movers, I should have told you-"

"Don't worry my dear, it's no trouble. Honestly, you should see the things your new roommate gets up to!"

Another person clearly knew of his antics. I had been anxious about meeting Mrs Hudson. My mother had arranged the place for me so this was our first meeting. She seemed nice enough so that worry was alleviated, though her words served to increase the worry inside me about Sherlock.

I spent the morning moving box after box around, finding my belongings and bringing them to their new home. I was surprised to see Sherlock bringing a few boxes in himself. I don't know whether he had done so of his own volition or if Mrs Hudson had had a word with him. Either way I was grateful for it.

I had left the most difficult item till last. I placed it by my bed on the side cabinet. It was the last photograph of the two of us. His cane could be seen in his grip. I hadn't noticed it until that point, but my own hand was resting against it, as if drawn to its handle, or maybe the cane was drawn to me. I took the real thing in my hands. It lifted my heart to see it again, even after one day. I knew how daft it was in my mind, but my heart argued.

It was still a couple of days until my lectures began. It gave me some time to settle in somewhat, and get a grip on who Sherlock Holmes was. He didn't mention his surname until I saw it in intricate writing above his work. Maybe it was inappropriate to go rifling through his things, even if it was only papers on his desk, but the mystery of Sherlock Holmes was getting to me. The gravity of what he was doing at University grew heavier when I looked through each one, all of them on different subjects. It was ludicrous for one student to work like this, but Stamford had described him as a genius.

I took a walk, just round the block to help familiarize my surroundings. At least I wouldn't be hopelessly lost on the first day. Sherlock often took walks himself but he seemed to make a habit of doing so at different times to myself. It felt antisocial, not that I had much to say myself. I didn't watch him as he paced the sitting room during those first few days in case he found it rude, as if it was a crime I best avoid. I hadn't brought up the subject of his education since he interrupted me. I thought it best not to bring the subject up and instead leave him to tell me of his own will.

I had little to focus on, say for my studies now that the semester had begun. All I had was my roommate and his curious antics to consume my attention in my spare time. You can imagine how dumbstruck I was to find Sherlock Holmes in my medical ethics lecture. The lecturer gave no reaction to his presence besides a quick roll of the eyes when he spotted him. It seemed Sherlock was infamous already. Why they allowed him to welcome himself into lectures was anyone's guess. Maybe genius minds were given greater tolerance. I dared not ask anyone.

One night, back at Baker Street, there was a guest at the door. Sherlock had been sitting with one leg over the other, his hands against his lips as if he were praying. He shot up the instant the doorbell rang and bolted down the stairs. There hadn't been a call as far as I could tell but his actions left me thinking that he was expecting company. I peeped down the stairs as well as I could, but I couldn't make out who our unexpected guest was past my roommate.

They didn't come in. Their conversation was brief and lacked any sort of emotion. I couldn't make out their hushed words but whatever it was, it wasn't a quiet chat between friends. When Sherlock returned I was already in the armchair, reading through a book I had grabbed from the shelf in a rush. I heard the door close, not wanting to make eye contact. Such acts seem weird now, but that was how it was back then between the two of us. When I did dare take a look over the pages at him, he had returned to his contemplation. There was a moment of silence before a crafty grin formed in the corner of his mouth.

"It is only natural to have an interest in a roommate's life, Watson."

"John," I corrected him, as I didn't like being referred to by my surname. "And what makes you say that?"

His eyes darted over me in a flurry of movements, as they would over anything that peaked his interest.

"Could you place my book back where you found it?"

I wasn't really reading it, so I did as he said. At least, I tried. I had taken it in a hurry to not look like I was prying. I had no memory as to where I had taken it. I made a guess.

"No. Nice try, but far off. Third row, fourth to the right."

He knew exactly where it was meant to be. I looked at him inquisitively.

"You know exactly where it goes from there? Do you even know which book it is?"

He didn't move a muscle, say for those needed to move his lips.

"No, but I know the third book to the right is slanted more than it was moments ago."

He was right. I hadn't notice a difference myself, but there it was.

"Sometimes we don't see things that are right in front of our eyes, because we are not looking for them. That Watson, is a lesson to learn in itself."

I was impressed, though I tried not to show it. I placed the book back carefully.

"John." I corrected him again. That was one lesson I was determined for _him_ to learn.

I retrieved one of my medical books from my bag and started reading ahead, seeing as I had little else to do that evening. The silence filled the room like a welcome guest, one whom was familiar with this particular residence. The clock on the mantel piece ticked away as I read each line with a broken concentration. Sherlock's presence still had a grip on me. He was lying on the sofa now, his hands still pressing against each other, his face scrunched up. What was he thinking?

He jumped up and began to pace the room. It startled me and I placed my textbook on the floor beside me. He paid no heed to my reaction and walked back and forth, clearly upset with some train of thought. I couldn't let it go. This wasn't the first time he had done this and it was starting to bother me.

"Do you always pace with your hands behind your back? You look like a Rah." His manner of walking like an upper-class man was starting to seem obnoxious to me.

He didn't look impressed by my summary of him.

"Oh, listen to Watson here and his pejorative view on the affluent," Now I was convinced he was trying to blind-side me with archaic speech. "Why do _you_ always feel the need to walk around with that cane? You look like Captain Mainwaring. Truly Watson, do the bags under your eyes not make you look old enough as it is?"

That stung. I didn't like anyone mentioning the cane in a bad light, but my sleep deprivation was certainly off limits. What gave him any right to mention what I was going through? I am not proud of it, looking back, but I didn't let it slide.

"It's my father's! I keep it close to remind myself of him." He had seen my cane and even made a point of mentioning what it was during our first meeting, but still he asked.

I think his question was more to make me think about the answer, upon recollection. That was his way. He would pose a question for others' benefit, as he would normally know the answer already.

He continued to pace, taking longer strides.

"Really John, if you're forgetting about your own father already then I would worry about those pills you've been taking. Oh, by the way, the recommended dosage is two a day, not four."

Now he was starting to piss me off. I shouldn't have let it get to me like I did.

"It's three, actually, and they're just to help me sleep. Have you been spying on me?"

It seems ironic now considering the quiet interest I had taken in _him_ since arriving. I hadn't thought for a moment that he had been doing the same with me.

" _Four_ Watson, apparently they aren't working."

I had been falling into a habit of taking more than I had been prescribed by my consultant. As a student attempting to enter the medical profession, it was hardly a good signal, but I had become desperate to get my head down and end reoccurring thoughts.

"Who was it at the door?" I wanted to change the subject from me as soon as possible.

It was still early days but every time I would phase him with a question, he didn't give that flinching moment of panic other people often would when asked something suddenly. Sherlock welcomed it like a challenge.

"Someone inquiring about something. Nothing for you to be concerned with." He turned away as he spoke, focusing his eyes to the road outside.

The enigma that was my new roommate was like a Pandora's Box. I wanted to open it, to see what was going on in that head of his, even if what lie within was not for mortal eyes.

"Tell me Sherlock, because I don't quite understand you. With your mind, why are you even at University? You seem to know everything already! You corrected the lecturer twice today!"

"Four times." He had corrected _me_ before I had finished speaking.

"See? I know you're doing multiple courses, but you don't even study for them. How do you know so much?"

This question was not met with the excitement of a challenge. His gaze fell from the window to the desk in front of him. He looked, from my point of view, like someone pondering over who they were.

"You have a deep fascination with me, don't you Watson?"

I didn't grace him with an answer. I picked up my study book and sighed.

"What are your ambitions?" he quickly turned the subject back on me. "Let's see… The Human anatomy. Judging from your books, the lectures I have seen you in along with your notes and family history, you wish to become a doctor."

It wasn't exactly brain surgery to work out what I was studying. I hadn't been quiet on the matter around campus. It was the last remark he made that I found unwelcome.

"What do you mean by family history?" I asked him.

"When I heard you were to be my roommate I took the liberty of 'researching' your family history, date of birth, address and, ahem, medical records."

I couldn't believe his nerve. Most of that was private information. How he had gained access to it I dreaded to think.

"You cheeky bas-"

"Your father, a medic in the British Army. Suffered a bullet wound in the leg in Afghanistan. That didn't stop him though, did it? That wasn't him, no. He went out again… only he didn't come back that time. I assume you wish to follow in his footsteps, minus the tragic demise part?"

I sat in a humbled silence. It was enough to shock me. All this time, friends, family, even psychiatrists had tiptoed their way through or around the subject, like it was a minefield waiting to snare them. Sherlock Holmes on the other hand brazenly strutted through, caring not for where he was stepping. My reaction was the only one I had in that moment. Back off.

I stood up out of my chair and stopped inches away from him.

"Don't pry into my personal life again, do you understand me?" I wasn't one for threats, but he was bringing me dangerously close.

He was not fazed, nor surprised by my reaction. I think now he even anticipated it. I returned to my seat and gathered my father's cane before retiring to my room. I lent against my closed door and focused on nothing but the intricate handle in my grip. I wished it wasn't in my possession. It didn't belong to me. The thought of it being buried where I could never see it, along with its owner, was the main reason I took it. It was too late by the time my mother realized where it really was. She looked for days. She wept because she thought she had lost it. He wouldn't be buried with the one thing that defined his physical character to everyone who knew him, and it was because of her carelessness.

I hadn't the heart to tell her the truth. It wasn't fair of me, but none of it was fair. When she finally found it I had expected her to hate me. She stared at the cane in my hand. She watched her only son lean against it, imitating his father. She didn't say a word. She didn't even look upset. She looked at me the same way she would…

I placed the thing by my bed-side cabinet. I didn't want to think back. The whole point of me being there was to move on in my life. Why did Sherlock have to march through my grief like it meant nothing? He didn't know my father, yet he spoke of him like he was reciting his biography. His character wouldn't have bothered me so much if I had met him at any other time in my life. Fate though had given him a helping hand. It _was_ the right time to meet him, even if I didn't know it at first.

I was broken out of my trance by sharp chords. I thought it was on the television at first, but in the short time I had lived at Baker Street, I hadn't seen Sherlock turn it on once. I let my anger die down and opened my door just enough to gander through. My roommate was in the middle of the sitting room. His head was bowed. The source of the sound had become obvious. The way he played didn't follow any particular song to its conclusion. Instead, it danced from one mood to another. It came to my attention that he wasn't reciting a memorized tune, but instead he was expressing his inner self. One moment it was calm, then it would veer into the chaotic. His face told a similar story to the sound that filled the room.

"I didn't know you played the violin."

He stopped immediately. His face formed a grin.

"I think there is much for us to learn about each other, John."

He rested the instrument on the sofa he would whine away the day on, pondering over one thought or another. I hadn't noticed any form of case for it.

"I meant no disrespect. I, like everyone, have my shortcomings. Sometimes I get in the dumps when a particular thought process grips me. No need for worry, just leave me to it and it will pass. I often play my violin to help, I hope you don't mind?" To be honest it would make a nice change to the seemingly endless silence that filled each evening between us. "I smoke, though only outside. I sometimes have private business to attend to with guests if you are fine with me using this room at such times?"

I nodded, though it peaked my interest.

"I guess it would make sense to know each other's worst vices, if we are going to live together. I wake up at ungodly times at the moment. The pills help with that a bit," He knew why quite clearly. "Sometimes I get lazy when I have nothing to focus on. I don't like rowing."

He gave me a warm smile.

"Nor do I. Arguments rarely solve anything, say for the mystery of one's temperament."

We had learned more about each other in one evening than we had the whole week. Breaking down that wall of unfamiliarity made me feel better, at the very least.

"Sorry for calling you a bastard." I apologized.

"You didn't quite get that far." He corrected, returning to the window.

I wasn't so reluctant to speak to my roommate after that evening. We were far from familiar but at least we could learn now. There was still the mystery of what was driving Sherlock Holmes. As he focused on God knows what outside, I wandered over to his desk. His University papers had been tidied away, but I recognized his handwriting on the single piece of paper remaining. I couldn't make out much of it. The subject was hypothetical, or as I saw it, ludicrous.

"What utter rubbish is this?"

His eyes looked back at me questioningly.

"Ah, that." He wasn't disappointed in my review.

"The Science of Deduction. It's written well but half of this isn't possible. No one could work that much out so quickly, I'd bet money on it. It would take… a genius."

"You would lose your money, Watson." He answered.

That look of excitement, I hadn't seen it since the laboratory during our first meeting.

"Really? And who have you met that could decipher who a person is from one look?"

He didn't answer straight away, instead he turned to the bookshelf.

"I didn't look up your records, Watson. It was just easier an explanation. That there, is how I knew so much. You were surprised to hear of my knowledge about your father's cane. Your eyes, the solemn look you have on you most days, the pills, and of course the medals I helped carry to your room. Left to you, no doubt, by someone who was close to you?"

He had chosen to let me believe that he had snooped into my personal life, rather than explain the truth of his methods. I guess my reaction to his theory was what he had expected to hear.

"I told you John, man and woman often miss what is in front of them because they aren't looking for it. It's true, it requires great knowledge on many matters, and a talent for observation and deduction to put this theory to work. That's why I'm here, John. That's what I study. Not science, not medicine. Deduction, and it requires knowledge from many fields."

I could see what had caught his attention now. Outside the window was a police car, parked on the other side of the street.

"You want to be a detective?" I asked him.

"I want to be _the_ detective. No… I must be, for the sake of this city. Something is coming, Watson. I can feel something in the shadows, hiding in sight but it's the one thing that alludes me."

I could see why people would question if his genius was bordering the psychotic. Through all his boasting, nothing had given me reason to think that Sherlock Holmes thought too highly of himself, until now.

"You're doing it again." I said.

"Opening your eyes to a bigger world?"

"Talking absolute crap."

"I wasn't aware I did that." He scoffed.

The police car's lights shut off.

"So, have these 'guests' of yours got anything to do with your ambitions? Are you hoping on becoming a private detective or something?"

The doorbell rang. A policemen stood at our door.

"I already am."

He passed me with a reserved confidence and answered the door.

"What have I got myself into?" I said to myself.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Writing's on the Wall

When Sherlock returned, he held an opened letter in his hands.

"What is a policeman doing talking to you, Sherlock?" I still doubted how far his ambitions had taken him.

"Because, Watson, it looks like Gregson has himself in a spot of bother." That excitable look was on his face again.

"Mind explaining?" I asked in a manner that showed my obvious confusion.

"Gregson, a sharp man, probably one of the few members of Scotland Yard that can boast a decent mind. He and Lestrade of course, but both are far too conventional."

They were just names to me, and the idea that this student had connections within Scotland Yard sounded about as absurd as his theories. Still, when he presented me with the letter I had less reason to doubt him.

"A murder at Lauriston Gardens? And they have come to you?"

"You seem surprised?"

His manner suggested that there should be no doubt of them coming to him for aid. The whole thing still seemed nothing but a story to me. It was ridiculous. No detective in their right mind would go to a University student for help. I was convinced this was some kind of trick. It had to be, surely? The whole thing was staged by a person that wanted to show off, to appear superior. Others may have fallen for his tricks, but not me.

"Are you going?" I asked.

He looked startled by my question.

"Hmm? Why would I?"

He had just described his reason for being here and now he was completely double-backing on it. For an upcoming detective, he gave off the vibe that he wasn't interested in this case in the slightest. Maybe I had caught him in his lie.

"You have to go. They are begging for your help."

Sherlock shook his head slowly, as if I'd missed some obvious point to it all.

"Yes, he begs. They want my aid, because they know what I can do. Once I am finished, Gregson and Lestrade will pocket all the credit because, after all, who would believe that a nineteen year old beat Scotland Yard to the punch? Three times I have shown what I can do, and each time they have kept hush, and I am no closer to being taken seriously. Society has its own shortcomings. Superiority means nothing because of my age. Gregson would rather cut out his own tongue than give me any credit."

It was sound logic, but I was still sure he was trying to cover his tracks. You must understand, his explanation was the very reason I had cause to doubt him. How could someone not even in their twenties have such knowledge? I had to put an end to it for my own sanity. Either he was lying, or there really was something to Sherlock Holmes.

"Maybe you won't get credit, but it's what you want to do. You want to show what you are capable of. Its perfect practice if nothing else."

He raised a single eyebrow.

"Are you sure you are studying to be a doctor, Watson? Or a psychologist?"

I shrugged, trying not to give anything away.

"We may as well have a look. At least I can have a laugh at the bumbling plods, if nothing else."

It had worked.

" _We_?" I asked.

"If you have nothing better to do."

I went to grab my father's cane. Sherlock watched me as I crossed the room into my own. I wondered if he had done that often. It surely would have been an oddity to him, seeing me attach it to my bag wherever I went. Not long after, we were in a taxi, heading for the Brixton Road. The vehicle was filled with the same silence as Baker Street, as if it had accompanied us as an unwanted guest. I broke it in a hope it wouldn't return for the night.

"So, have you worked anything out yet? I bet you have the whole thing wrapped up already, don't you?"

"I have yet to see anything. No evidence leads to baseless assumptions. Assumptions that bias your results."

The taxi stopped about a hundred yards from our destination. Number 3 Lauriston Gardens, God it looked a dreary place in the low evening light. A single lamppost made the house and a police car visible at least. It had been drizzling for some time, making the mucky path slippery underfoot. It hadn't been how I had expected to spend the evening, but I had to discover the truth about my roommate.

A To Let sign was leaning miserably outside, letting everyone know that it had been there for a while. The house looked unremarkable with its three windows and a single vine that snaked between them. It didn't appear to be an attractive property to purchase, even for the desperate. I didn't know if it was the building's aesthetics, or the knowledge of what had happened within that played with my nerves. My roommate had no such qualms, in fact, he was smiling.

"He can't come in."

A police put his hand sternly towards me. Drat, I wasn't going to see my roommate 'at work' after all.

"I believe my assistant does indeed have permission, unless you wish to take it up with Gregson."

The man clearly didn't want to be out there in the rain any longer than necessary so he didn't argue. I passed him and followed Sherlock into the darkness of the house.

"I wasn't sure you would come, what with your studies and all." I heard a voice travel in our general direction.

The source was from a tall, pale skinned man who was clearly freezing by the way he rubbed his hands together.

"I carefully manage my studies Gregson. Your men on the other hand had no patience before rampaging the front garden like a herd of buffalo. You are lucky it didn't take place outside, or there would barely be any evidence left at all." Sherlock spoke with such brazenness that you would thing he were the man's boss.

"Not lost that attitude Holmes? You know how I feel about this whole thing… but desperate times call for it. Lestrade is upstairs on the scene."

They spoke to him like he was one of their own, all say for the remark about his attitude. We headed upstairs alongside the detective. The house felt just as damp as the evening air outside, with mildew and dust coating the walls. If it was an unappealing place to the naked eye upon first inspection, then it would cause any respectable property inspector to vomit once they had peeked inside.

I took my father's cane off of its strap on my bag and took it in hand. I was suddenly feeling morbid about the whole thing. I had jumped into this, desperate to unearth my roommate's lies, but now reality was starting to set in. I was about to look at an actual crime scene. The scene of a murder no less. I grasped the cane hard for protection. I wished I could have been as calm and collected as Sherlock.

We were led into a barren room. The window was so dirty that it hardly let in any light at all. Lamps had been placed around the crime scene for forensics. A man and a woman were still searching the floor, each clad in forensic suits as not to contaminate the place. Flowery wallpaper was peeling away from the walls, revealing the sorry state of the plaster underneath. I noticed all of these details later on, for my attention had been immediately drawn to the body that was lying at my feet.

I could only describe it as ghastly. I wanted to look away, but a macabre fascination locked me in place. The victim's arms were stretched up beside his face, which itself was frozen in a look of horror. Whatever had killed him, it couldn't have been pleasant. His clothes looked expensive and more inclined towards winter weather, though with the drizzle outside no one would have blamed him. I couldn't see any raindrops on his clothes, however.

"We've checked him over. There is sign of a struggle, but no physical injuries that could have been fatal. Blood hasn't come back yet but I'm sure it was poison." Lestrade began a dialogue with Sherlock without as much as a greeting. Clearly he wasn't happy about the situation.

I watched in fascination as my roommate studied every part of the body. He scanned every fine detail of the man, with a speed that confronted me with the thought that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock really was as good as he said.

With his search complete, he pivoted on one foot slowly, taking in the room. He stopped with a smile, his gaze locked on me.

"John, if you would be so kind as to take an inspection for me?"

I nearly choked.

"Wha… me?" I couldn't think of anything coherent to say.

"You are training to be a doctor are you not? See if you can find anything of interest about our fallen friend here."

I looked at the detectives before daring to move.

"Who is this, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

I was sure I was about to get kicked out, or worse.

"This is John Watson, my assistant, and please don't delay him detective, we have work to do." Sherlock stood back, his face showing none of the cockiness of his words.

So there I was. I had come to London to begin the next stage of my life. Standing in a grotty room, surrounded by Scotland Yard and with a dead body in front of me was not how I had pictured it at all. Why had I done this? I had been so desperate to show Sherlock up, yet the truth had slapped embarrassment my way. I would have thought myself to be disgusted in the past, but I couldn't be. Something stirred in me that drew me closer. There was exhilaration to it. A story had taken place in this very room, and its climax had led to death.

I placed my father's cane beside me and knelt down. The man's cuffs were immaculate, showing no sign of a struggle there. I couldn't find any bruises, cuts or indeed a sign of a considerable fight. I assumed that the diagnosis of poisoning was probably correct, which begged a new question.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" I heard Sherlock say.

That look, he was drawing me into his world. He wanted to see how I would react. My thoughts mixed with ideas of what could have happened, and the idea that this was Sherlock's twisted way of showing me just how wrong I had been. By the time I looked back at him, he was already studying the rows of evidence on a white bench to the side of the room.

"So, what would you say about the affair?" Sherlock asked me, like I was his student.

"This isn't a game Holmes, if you know what's happened here then tell us." Lestrade was growing impatient, clearly.

"We are not quite done here. Watson, take a look at the evidence. I have one more thing to check."

He retrieved a torch from the bench and made his way over to the rotting plaster. I on the other hand took a look at the bench. Laid out were the victim's personal belongings. An expensive looking watch, a business card with the name Joseph Stangerson and a wallet with I.D that belonged to an Enoch J. Drebber, alongside a single photograph that depicted a young woman and two men. There was very little money, making me think it could have been a robbery. The last item was a plane ticket, bought by Drebber and dated for the next day.

"Was the man killed for his wallet?" I asked.

"Think Watson, does that question need to be asked?" That was the vague answer my roommate gave me.

Seven pounds and thirteen pence was all that was left in change. I guess if it was for his money, the robber probably would have taken the whole wallet. My reasoning wasn't up to Sherlock's standards, especially not on that cold, confusing evening. Sherlock clapped his hands together and stepped back.

"This room is full of surprises! Gentleman, feast your eyes upon this wall for me."

I let the detectives go first. What was he up to?

"There's nothing there, boy." Gregson muttered.

"Not at first, unless…"

Sherlock retrieved a lighter from his pocket and made his way excitedly over to a small stool in the left corner of the room. Atop it was a red candle, its wax having dried after running down its side. He felt the wick before lighting it.

"…you shed some light on the matter."

With the low light coming from a new angle, a dark red pattern had become apparent on the broken plaster.

"Extraordinary!" Gregson exclaimed.

"How did you know to light the candle?" I asked in a befuddled state.

"I noticed the curious writing and immediately went about deciphering why it had gone amiss for so long. At first I had assumed it was due to Gregson and Lestrade's 'excellent' detective skills, but in this case they could be forgiven," I had to hold in a chuckle. Neither of the two men looked impressed. "The wick of the candle is not as cold as the rest of the room, meaning that it was lit recently. It would have been the only source of reliable light in the room, given the window's sorry state. The writing is visible with it, meaning the killer was leaving us a message. How polite of them."

The red substance used to write the message had dripped down the walls, coating the rotting floorboards. The young would-be detective had discovered this new clue, but it added nothing from where I was standing.

"Rache?" Gregson read the writing out load.

"And that's meant to mean what exactly?" I asked the room.

"Rachel. I bet someone called Rachel has something to do with this!" Gregson deducted.

I saw Sherlock roll his eyes in a manner hidden from the two men.

"Indeed, Indeed. I would like to inform you however that there is a slight discrepancy with your golden reasoning. Rachel has six letters, so the wall would disagree with you." Sherlock did nothing to hide his condescension.

"The victim could have been leaving a clue of their killer." Gregson tried to back up his reasoning.

As the chattering went back and forth, I couldn't keep my eyes from being drawn back to the dead man behind me. That face wasn't something I would be able to forget in a hurry. Although he was the victim, there was something startlingly evil about it. Was it a reflection of what had happened to him perhaps? A mirror into the hell that had taken him? It wasn't right of me to wonder if this man deserved it or not, I knew nothing of this stranger. All I knew was that he was dead, and I was way over my head.

I wanted to get my eyes off the grim sight, so I forced myself to focus on the broken floorboard beside him. In the new candlelight, something shining wrestled for my gaze. There was something that had gone amiss. I knelt down, making sure to keep the man's face well out of my view. Under the man's overcoat was something hard, and round. I was surprised to find myself with a wedding ring in my hand.

"I think he was married?"

All eyes turned to me. I held up the ring, letting them all see it. Although the ring reflected the candlelight, the brightest thing in the room was Sherlock's face.

"Very well done, Watson," My roommate took the ring in his palm. "Alas, our man is not married. Or he shows no sign at least."

"Why not?" It had seemed a reasonable assumption to me.

"There is no mark on his finger, or any sign of a struggle strong enough to dislodge it. Would a man really take off his ring in the last moments of life? It would be the last thing on his mind. The last nail in the coffin for your idea John, is the fact that this ring belongs to a woman."

It was a distasteful metaphor considering the circumstances, but Sherlock didn't seem the type to care.

"A woman's you say? See! Rachel!" Gregson brightened up.

Sherlock didn't roll his eyes this time, but he did freeze for a moment.

"It is a woman's ring no doubt. The metal's width is thinner to that belonging to a groom. As for Rachel, there is nothing to confirm it. Tell me, have you seen the word 'Rache' in the English dictionary before?" None of us answered. "Of course not, but you would in a German one. Rache is their word for 'Revenge'."

Right, now I was left with my mouth wide open.

"You showed extraordinary interest in my studies, Watson. Why would I wish to know so much? Such a fact as the meaning of the German word Rache would be considered trifling. Here though, well, the crimson writing talks for itself. That is your lecture today Watson, your first foray into the science of deduction. Hmm, I like that. 'A lecture in crimson'."

"Enough of your tangents! What does it all mean?" Lestrade interrupted.

"It means that someone has tried to cast whatever scent you may catch into the river. It's a ruse, and Watson knows why."

Again I found myself dragged into Sherlock's theories.

"Come again?" I asked.

"Come on, you have had a look at the body. You must see it, surely? Gregson here believes a woman called Rachel was involved. Let the poor man know why he is a klutz for thinking so."

He really was pushing his luck. I guess this was his way of laughing at the 'bumbling plods'. I gathered my thoughts. My knowledge of the human body was of little use as there was no sure sign of a scuffle. Instead I applied myself to a different way of thinking. Rachel… Rache… the victim… no blood.

"There is no blood on the victim's fingers, or underneath the nails so they couldn't have written the message. The writing seems off as well. If it was meant to be Rachel then why leave the word short? There is room left for the L and the body's position suggests he had time left to move there before dying, or he wasn't by the wall in the first place."

Sherlock grinned.

"I will make a detective of you yet, Watson."

God I hoped not. This dirty scoundrel's way of drawing me in, it had completely turned the tide on me.

"Oi! You aren't one yet yourself Sherlock!" Lestrade scolded him.

"I would say the same of you Lestrade if I didn't know better," He muttered under his breath. "My assistant is right, of course. No, the message was left by the murderer. To add to Watson's evaluation, the scratches in the weak plaster tell us that the writer had much longer nails than the victim, so we should be on the lookout for someone who keeps them untrimmed."

"Or a woman…" Gregson whispered.

"Just drop it, Gregson! You were the one who summoned him here, so deal with it." Lestrade shouted.

I was beginning to see the rivalry between these two men. They must have hated being mocked by someone far younger than them, but stealing the credit would have been worth it.

"What do you know of the victim so far, this Drebber?" Sherlock asked with little humanity behind his words. The corpse on the floor could have merely been another clue in his mind as far as I was concerned.

"He lived in New York. The ticket confirms that he was heading back tomorrow. There doesn't seem to be a connection between him and this Stangerson mentioned on the card but we are following up that lead. As for career, he was a doctor back in the U.S."

"Hmm, how ironic," Sherlock gave a quick glance at me. "And no marital status discovered I assume?"

"Not yet," Gregson added.

"Now then, what was this man doing in London? Clearly the company he shared this room with wasn't of a pleasant sort…" Sherlock paced.

"Well?" Lestrade attempted to interrupt his long strides across the room.

Sherlock just smiled in response.

"I wouldn't be too rude as to presume I could rob you of the glory in this case, Lestrade. You are doing finely up to this point," he checked his watch. "As for us, we really should get going. We have a morning lecture on Monday and I know how much Watson likes to study on Sundays. Must be off."

The two detectives were dumbfounded.

"Hold up! We haven't finished!" Lestrade held out his hand.

"Quite right! There is one more thing. You wouldn't be able to point us in the direction of who discovered the body would you?"

I had the sense that Sherlock was going to ask that regardless, he was just making a personal joke at the detectives' expense.

"An officer on duty found him, John Rance. He's just gone off duty though. He lives at 46 Audley Road."

"I'm sure he won't mind us popping in." Sherlock said with a grin.

"I'll call him in advance." Lestrade retrieved his phone from his pocket.

"Come, come Watson. Leave the poor man be." He referred to the body.

I made sure to pick up the cane, feeling guilty that I had left it on the rotting floor as long as I did. There was a spring in Sherlock's step as he made his way down the stairs and into the front garden. I hadn't even noticed the mess that he had referred to earlier until we were leaving. As for how I was feeling, it was a mixture of foreboding for what I had gotten myself into, and fascination for my roommate. I had been wrong.

"How the hell did you do all of that!?" I exclaimed.

He seemed pleased with my outburst.

"Some theories may seem ridiculous at first, but often the most ridiculous things are the truth. The idea that man can walk on the moon was ludicrous just a hundred years ago. In this case though, what isn't ludicrous is the fact that our victim upstairs died of some form of poison, and with no struggle to find, there is only one explanation that they have overlooked." I didn't ask because I knew he would explain regardless. "The two men, our victim and the killer, came here together without a fight to be had between them. In the same car, no less."

I was at a loss.

"You noticed that from the dust? The footprints the detectives had made ruined that, surely?"

"Quite the contrary. Their footsteps had nothing to do with it. This was the very first thing I noticed upon arrival." He pointed to the road. "You see how the road is less damp outside the house? Curious shape, is it not? Exactly the size of a car or taxi. It had not been raining until this vehicle arrived, and clearly it did not leave until the rain had stopped. It was here for some time, and only one was present during said time."

I looked under the nearby police car. Indeed it was damper than the patch Sherlock had noticed, after all, it had arrived after the deluge.

"I… just can't…" I couldn't wrap my head around it.


	4. Chapter 4 - Ensnared

After calling a taxi, we found ourselves outside the home of the man who had discovered the body. He was already waiting outside, looking disturbed and quite out of sorts.

"Very sorry to bother you, Officer Rance. This shouldn't take long."

The man shook his head.

"I can't believe Lestrade is willing to go along with this again. Turning to children for answers, we will be the laughing stock of the police force!" He was clearly upset with the whole setup.

"Pleasure to meet you as well. Lestrade said you were the man who discovered the late Enoch Drebber?" The way Sherlock overlooked the officer's mockery seemed rehearsed, and I couldn't help but smile at my roommate's ability to simply walk over protocol without consequence.

The man sighed before confirming. We didn't enter the house as I'm sure he wanted as little to do with us as possible. He paid me no attention or heed throughout the entire conversation, not that I wanted it.

"There isn't much to tell. I was patrolling the area, a rather rowdy stag do was going on at the pub down the street, and Lauriston Gardens was just as rotten as ever. I noticed the door unlocked and thought I'd make sure the residents were alright. It's a dodgy area."

Sherlock shot me a glance.

"No doubt your actions were purely of the altruistic type."

"Are you denying my professionalism, boy!?"

"Not at all. Though the last case I was involved in did star a rather promiscuous officer, and a missing broach. Though how the woman's earring got in his pocket was a real mystery, one that her husband found very upsetting."

I failed to hold back a chuckle and it came out like a quiet yelp.

"Be that as it may, I take my job seriously."

"Of course, there is no denying that. What did you find?"

He frowned.

"What do you think, boy? A body and no sign of a killer. I called it in and that was all I had to do with the affair."

I watched Sherlock study the man for a moment, his blank expression giving nothing away.

"Anything strange occur afterwards?"

The officer rolled his eyes.

"Like I said, there was a stag do and a couple of drunkards came by. One passed the house and I helped him up after he fell by the garden wall. He was on his way after. That's all I had to do with it."

That peeked Sherlock's interest.

"What did this chap look like?"

"Does it matter? He was tallish, had a waistcoat on, dirty fingernails."

"That will do. Come on Watson!"

It was a sudden end to the matter. I walked back to the taxi alongside my companion.

"Thank you for the information, Officer Rance. Most enlightening." Sherlock took his seat in the back of the cab.

The evening was becoming a whirlwind of events. I felt exhausted. Maybe I wouldn't need my pills after all if this was to be our life. I sat beside him and without further ado we were heading back to Baker Street.

"What nonsense that must go through the head of Scotland Yard these days?" Sherlock muttered.

"Beg your pardon?"

"That officer could well have thrown away a promotion. That 'drunkard' from the stag do didn't even attend it, nor was he drunk" Sherlock began.

"Then what was he doing there? Some nutter?" I interrupted.

Sherlock showed me the wedding ring.

"This Watson, is why he was there. It didn't belong to the victim, so it must belong to someone they knew, or someone close to the murderer," It was astounding. I hadn't even notice Sherlock walk out with it. "He returned to the scene to retrieve it. You know how the old saying goes, only this time the culprit was unable to enter due to our new friend Mr John Rance, so he pretended to be drunk as an alibi for his presence."

I sat back in my seat and tried to piece it all together. I had never been so happy to be so wrong. I began the evening wanting to show up my liar of a roommate, but instead he had proven to be what he claimed to be and more. How he had gone under the radar could only have been Scotland Yard covering there embarrassed tracks. What a strange thing to walk into. My life had suddenly become much more interesting.

"There is much left to discover," he began to monologue. "The blood must have belonged to the killer, but without a suspect it is useless. The identity of this strange drunken figure is what we need to find out." He analyzed the ring in the light.

"How do we do that?"

"It's been a long night. I think we should retire." He closed his eyes and let the taxi take us on.

Visions of the victim's face echoed in my head as I lay in my bed that night. It still didn't feel like home, and the night's festivities only added to that anxiety. Why it was keeping me up made it all the worse. That look of shock, or fear, or something I couldn't decipher on his face was trapped in my mind. Did my father have that same look as he lay dying? Was the man that had raised me reduced to a still of terror by someone that knew nothing of him? War seemingly blurs out every face and makes them a number. The truth is more startling. Widows and heartbroken families are what are left when the smoke clears and the guns stop. Part of me wanted to continue on this trail of murder, but deep down I knew I couldn't go on with dreams like this every night. I let myself cry that night for the first time, my father's cane in my clutches.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of a violin. My younger self would have protested, but this was like a siren's call. The manner with which Sherlock played was entrancing, as each chord flowed from calm to utter madness. I got dressed in a half-awake state and said good morning to my roommate. Sherlock continued to play, saying nothing but nodding to acknowledge my presence. I listened as I made myself a cup of coffee. The kettle stopped and Sherlock ceased at the same moment. I'm sure he had timed it.

"Ah, that was the one! Mendelssohn, you promised much, and you delivered! Surely there is no better music to be heard than that from Germany!"

"I'm sure a few countries would want 'Rache' for that remark." I said as a stirred my coffee.

My joke went unnoticed, as Sherlock went about putting his violin away in silence. He looked startled when I put the television on. I really was starting to think that he had never used the thing. I sipped at my morning drink and proceeded to watch on in awe as the very case we were now a part of was broadcasted.

"News travels fast. This is not the days of telegrams and street rumours. If you want to remain in the dark, you have to be more than discreet." My roommate said.

Lestrade gave a short account of the investigation, leaving out both Sherlock's and my own involvement in the affair.

"What did I tell you? We have no place in their glory, Watson."

"And yet you still have the case purring away in your head, don't you?" I asked.

He smiled.

"Oh, when I have hold, I don't let go. It seems you share that trait."

I looked away, not believing his comment.

"It takes a great level of personal strength and ability to become a doctor, especially given your family's circumstances. It is because of your father that you are in this very room," He was prying again, but I couldn't bring the strength to argue against it. "To honour a loved one, it isn't a strange motivation, or an uncommon one. Neither is revenge."

The last remark confused me somewhat.

"What do you mean, revenge?"

Sherlock was gazing at the wedding ring again.

"It is most curious. Motivation is a powerful force to reckon with. It can topple empires and bring men to walk on the moon… or drive one to murder. Or indeed, drive a person's future career. Admit it, you enjoyed every moment of last night's events."

"Now that's complete crap." I scoffed at him.

"You can't hide it from me. You seem so reserved and straight, but that body drew you in, I saw it in your eyes. You couldn't help but search for answers. We are alike."

"We are not!" I shouted. "You get excited about seeing people be murdered. I want to help save lives."

"You think you're calling more important than mine because it saves lives rather than avenges them?" he smiled. "See? We are similar," I rolled my eyes and sat in the armchair. "A doctor cures disease, but what is criminality but a cancer in the streets? This city is my patient, and I have the same roaring fire in me to cure it as you do."

"I'm not having anything else to do with this case!" I said in a quick outburst.

He looked disappointed. I had thought about it. It wasn't my place to jump into such a dangerous world. I was there to study and get my degree, and hopefully move on to achieve a doctorate. Running around solving murders wasn't on the agenda. We were young adults, and at this rate Sherlock would end up getting himself killed. I couldn't put myself in the same risk. I couldn't do that to my mother.

"If that is the way you feel, then so be it. I have no power over you. Do as you wish." He began to look outside the window.

That aura of unfamiliarity had returned. I was feeling roped in. I didn't care if this was his own desperate way of trying to make a friend, or just use me for his cases, either way I would have nothing to do with it. I couldn't live my life being haunted by dead men. I didn't need a horde of them when I already had one.

I listened to the news for a bit. I listened to Lestrade hark on about how they were doing everything they could to find the murderer and that they already had a strong lead. Sherlock probably had the culprit in his head already. I gave the occasional bitter glance at him out of the corner of my eye. I was quick to snap, as much as I hated it. I hadn't been like that before. I would keep quiet and let others shadow me, desperate to get me to speak. I was glad that they had not spoken as brazen as Sherlock, or I may have snapped at someone that didn't deserve it.

Did Sherlock deserve it?

I risked a longer look at him. His eyes were closed and his hands were behind is back. I could see him frowning occasionally, and his eyes moved behind their lids as if he were reading something tattooed on the inside. I felt pathetic. Much of what he had said was true. I wanted to shut myself out of the affair and not look back, but my curious roommate and his antics had truly gotten to me.

"What are you doing?" I asked half-heartedly.

"Tidying things away."

I had no answer to that. It was ridiculous and nonsensical.

"This room is a state, so I doubt that." I chose to speak sarcastically.

"Not furniture Watson, thoughts. A man only has a finite space in his mind."

"I thought you were meant to be a genius." My tone had taken a dip into a similar realm as the one my mood was in.

"The richest man on Earth still has a finite space, and so a genius suffers the same way up here," He tapped the side of his head. "I don't like to worry myself with unnecessary facts. I like to keep my mind organised and stocked only with what I need. A brain-attic, if you will."

It sounded like more nonsense, but the way he went about the case so far had me doubting my original thoughts about him.

"So what don't you know?"

He opened his eyes and paced closer.

"Modern films and Hollywood antics don't hold much interest for me. Neither does astronomy, nor politics."

I didn't care much for politics myself. Astronomy though, I found that fascinating to a degree.

"Do you know the planets in our solar system?" I asked him.

"Is there likely to be a crime committed on any other than ours?"

I ignored him and carried on.

"Mars, Venus?"

"Greek Gods, yes?"

I was sure he was mocking the subject.

"Do you know what the Earth revolves around!?" I shouted.

"If it went around the moon, would it be of any relevance to the field I hope to join? I'm sure no werewolves will be involved."

I sat back in my chair, dumbfounded by his ignorance.

"You probably think it goes around a giant turtle." I remarked.

"Hmm?" His knowledge didn't stretch to literature either.

I shook my head and that was the end of the matter.

"I don't expect you to find my methods agreeable. No one does, but they are effective. You must forgive my ignorance."

I was taken aback by how sincere his apology was. Had I hurt his feelings, I wondered.

"I didn't mean-"

"It's no bother. Nothing I haven't come across. Nothing strange at all."

I heard his bedroom door close. I was left alone in the room, feeling guilty all of a sudden. My father's cane was still resting against the kitchen counter. I'd forgotten about it for a moment, but there it was again, back in my head as if calling to me. No. It would sit there. It wouldn't force me to move just so I could feel less insecure.

My eye twitched. My hand came to my mouth as I let out a frustrated sigh.

"Bollocks…"

I stood up and reached out for the cane. I sat down in a huff with it resting beside me. I let my head fall into my hands. It wasn't until my forehead was pressed against my fingers that I noticed how much they were shaking. I reached out for the cane in an instant, only to stop myself. What kind of person was I to rely on a family heirloom just to keep myself calm? It had become another appendage, and I hadn't thought it strange until that day. Sherlock, through arrogance or will, had the strength to hunt a murderer. I couldn't even leave the building without a wooden stick by my side. I couldn't even remember how I had managed without it during my stay at the hotel.

"We have had a breakthrough in the Brixton mystery. Rest assured, it will not be long before our streets are safe again." I heard Lestrade announce on the news.

A breakthrough. Had they found a suspect per chance? That would disappoint Sherlock, I thought, assuming it was the right person. As for the streets being safe, even I thought that was a long shot.

"Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire."

I hadn't heard Sherlock re-enter the room through my blurred concentration.

"What?" I asked.

"A fool always finds a greater fool to admire. They will take the credit, whether I solve this case or not. Perhaps I have been way over my head."

I hadn't heard him speak so solemnly before. Was it my fault?

"Foreign languages not a weak spot then?" I asked.

"Not at all."

He gazed back and forth between the television, me, and the cane.

"Not to coerce you, or consider myself in any place worthy of your trust for such matters, but there are support groups. The University offers a group of councilors. Take their advice or not. Either way, hearing it can stir the cogs if nothing else."

Was this an actual piece of advice from Sherlock Holmes? I'd seen most of his comments about my father, and myself, as jabs. Looking back, I think I had blamed Sherlock for thoughts that I'd formed about myself.

"Ah, that blasted thing!" Sherlock exclaimed upon hearing whimpering outside the door.

"The neighbour's dog still unwell?" I asked him. I hadn't heard it myself but it looked in a right state.

"Unwell? The fact that it lives is a disease for it. It is old and should have been blessed with a calm ending ages ago. Poor, suffering mutt."

I laughed. I actually laughed, and forgot about my thoughts for the time being.

"You not fond of dogs, Sherlock?"

"Not ones that howl and yap in pain when you are trying to think." His pacing increased.

"I don't mind dogs myself. I was considering getting one actually."

He looked at me as if I'd just slapped him.

"No?" I asked him subtlety.

"No!" he barked.

A phone rang.

It was the standard mobile ringtone for its make. I guess it was another thing Sherlock cared little for. He reached into his pocket and answered it with a grin.

"Hello?"

I tried to listen in on what the person on the line was saying but only got half of the conversation.

"Splendid! I hoped that someone would see the advert! I can imagine how dreadful it must be to lose a wedding ring. Yes… okay. Do you know a small coffee shop about ten minutes from Baker Street, the Boscombe Valley Café? Great. Is half an hour alright? Alright, see you then."

He'd spoken in a northern accent. It was actually amusing to listen to, regardless of my suspicion.

"A lost wedding ring… Sherlock… you haven't?"

"Haven't what? Just conversed with a murderer? Perhaps."

He was rushing around in a hurry. He retrieved his coat and anxiously checked his watch.

"What excellent timing. Let's see how far off Scotland Yard's lead was."

"Sherlock! Stop!" I stood up and yelled. "You aren't seriously doing this!? You can't go to a coffee shop and talk to a murderer! What do you expect to do? Ask him to turn himself in politely?"

"You are concerned with my safety. How touching. No need to worry. I used your name in the advert."

My mouth was wide open.

"You what!?"

"It will be me there, but my name has started going around. I don't want Scotland Yard ruining this." There wasn't a speck of fear in his eyes.

"This is completely insane! You can't confront a dangerous murderer."

"If worst comes to worst, I do have backup."

I followed him into his room. He reached under the bed and pulled out a dust-coated wooden box.

"Christ Sherlock! Where did you get that from!?"

He revealed a pistol.

"That Watson is a Mark three Adams Revolver."

"I know what the damn thing is. What I don't know is how you have one!"

He rubbed the dust off of the side of box with one finger. There was a name engraved on the side.

"You're not the only one with a military history in your family, John. This belonged to my grandfather."

My nerves were hitting me. My hands were shaking again. I couldn't help but imagine gunshots in my head.

"Are you actually insane? Why have you brought that here?"

He looked at me with a stern face.

"For the same reason you brought yours."

"I… err…"

How? How did the devil know? My father's pistol. It was left to me along with his medals. It was decommissioned, but to the naked eye it was still a weapon.

"The one under your bed isn't just for sentimental value. You brought it with you because it makes you feel like your father. Academic qualities or not, you crave adventure just as if you were him, and his father before. I can give it to you. Trust me Watson, what may happen today, we might need this."

I thought I might snap my father's cane how hard I was squeezing it.

"You're wrong about me. I… I don't want this."

I left his room and lent against the sitting room window. I was regretting ever going there. I should have commuted, or at the very least found somewhere else, but I couldn't. I was ensnared.

"You can lean on that cane, you can deny how you feel, but you can't hide what you are." I heard him prattle on.

"You don't know who I am! You've known me, what, two weeks? You don't know everything!"

I threw the morning newspaper at him. The papers scattered throughout the room, knocking Sherlock's own writing off of the desk. He let it all fall rather than attempt to catch it. There was no anger on his face as I tried to calm down. He left the newspaper around him and went for his work. He straightened the paper and placed it down carefully, adjusting it so that it was straight on the desk.

"I don't know everything… but I see it."

He left the room, entered the stairway and took a hat off of the pegs.

"A deerstalker?" I looked at him as he put it on.

"Not much of a disguise but it will do in this instance." He straightened the hat.

"This is all a big game to you, isn't it!?"

I saw a smile appear on his face.

"I hadn't thought of it like that. There is excitement in it. You may not want a part in this world Watson, but I can't resist its call. I must be off. The game is afoot!"


	5. Chapter 5 - Old Crones and Red Herrings

I sat alone in the apartment with no sound to be heard. I'd turned the television off, silencing Lestrade and the part he had in my life. I let thought after thought hit me as I chewed on my nail. I had bottled up things in the past and discovered that fighting them off was far more tiring than just letting them hit me. I was surrounded by them, like a victim swarmed by endless flames as his home burned down around him. I couldn't fight every flame, I hadn't the strength for that.

I should have been stronger. My mother was suffering just as much as I, but I let myself be a burden to her. My chosen silence haunted her more than the cries I didn't make for my father. She was desperate for me to open up to someone enough to spend much of her income on support. The last look she had given me the day that I met Sherlock Holmes was estranged. Her proudness was twisted by regret, I could see it. She couldn't hide it from me. It took all my strength to carry on walking alongside Stamford, and leave her there alone.

I hadn't called her in the two weeks I had been in London. What I hadn't expected was for her to do the same. Was her silence a way of helping her cope? I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to know that it was all going to be alright. I had to show that I was worthy of my father's sacrifice, even if I thought otherwise. I didn't know if she really believed I could do it. I couldn't decipher anything about her anymore. I'd hidden away so much that she had become invisible.

I held my mobile phone in my palm. There was her number right in front of me. She was one tap away, but my father, whose cane was in my other hand, was further than he could ever be. No relics I kept of his past would change that. I let my finger scroll down until it came to another number.

 _DAD_

The answer message would be a lie. He wouldn't answer me when he had the chance. There would be no words other than those pre-recorded. It was just a ghost on the line. My face scrunched up as I lowered my thumb over the number. I grit my teeth, trying to muster the courage to hear his voice. The past was becoming a door I couldn't stomach opening.

 _"You can lean on that cane, you can deny how you feel, but you can't hide what you are."_

Another door had been forced open, but this one, I felt drawn to.

I shut off my phone and grasped the cane. Within minutes, I was out the door, running through the street. I didn't care about the burning in my lungs, I just kept going at full speed. I tapped away on my phone to find the address, the words blurring at my pace. Sure enough, it wasn't far. I found myself shaking my head as I turned each corner, trying to avoid the idea that there was anything behind me. It all fell away into a dark pit where I could never see it again, where it couldn't hurt me. If Sherlock's idea of a brain-attic was real, then I wanted to dump everything out the window.

I didn't slow until I was pushing open the shop door. I was met with an impressed face.

"I thought I'd left something behind." Sherlock said smugly.

A cup of coffee was steaming on the table in front of him. I took a few deep breaths and sat down without saying a word. He was still wearing the hat, and if I'm honest, he looked quite ridiculous in it. His gelled hair looked too smart for it, and it certainly didn't match the rest of his clothing.

"It doesn't really work as a disguise, does it?" I said once I had caught my breath.

"Anyone who sees me will be far too preoccupied with the strange attire to think anything else."

"Then you should have dressed as a clown." I remarked.

His eyes fell to the cane in my hand. I saw him look sympathetic for just a second, as if he couldn't hold it back.

"I've been here on occasion. Sometimes the same four walls become a distraction. Once you learn each crack and tear in the wallpaper, such details draw you away from better things. Today this coffee shop also serves as neutral ground, where witnesses help make confrontations safer," He said. I hoped he was right. "You did well by the way. Twenty five minutes. I am impressed."

I covered my face with the breakfast menu out of embarrassment.

"Shut up." I said quietly.

"I did pen you down for ten." I tried to ignore him. "Try the ham and eggs. It's better than what Mrs Hudson offers, at least." I saw him grin, as if he had just made a joke about his mother.

"I thought we were here to catch a killer?" I whispered, not taking my eyes off of the menu.

"No harm in ordering a spot of breakfast while we wait, is there? My treat."

I'd kept my eyes on the menu far longer than necessary considering the small breakfast selection.

"What did you pick?" I asked him. "I never know what you have for breakfast. You're always up before me."

"I don't always bother. A loaf of bread and a clean collar does me each day. I could probably get by with plain toast if I wished, though in this case I might go with the pancakes."

I felt strange. A normal conversation about breakfast had become surreal considering a murderer was about to walk through the door, and I was starting to be put off the idea of eating.

"Just some coffee. I didn't finish mine."

Sherlock left the table for a moment to make the order. During this time I took the chance to look around the place. There were two gentleman in the back corner, both of whom were wearing striped suits and in the midst of some kind of deal. A young couple was on the other side, with a baby sleeping in its pram. The reality of what we were bringing so close to them became clear.

"No pancakes. Looks like its plain toast after all." I heard my companion return.

"This is wrong, Sherlock. We can't bring down a murderer in a public place." I tried to urge him against the dangerous act.

"Is that what you think we are doing?" I was thoughtless as to our purpose being there after that. "You are shaking. Keep calm, and don't stare at him while we chat. It will look suspicious."

My nerves had been so common to me that I hadn't noticed. I put down the menu and at least tried to act like any other patron. Time past, though I had lost track exactly how much. A third chair was already waiting beside us, taunting me with its emptiness. To think that a killer could well be about to accommodate it.

"You don't have to say a word, Watson. Let me deal with it."

As he said that, a frail, elderly woman made her way past our table. She appeared to be lost, at least that is what I thought at first.

"Excuse me, you aren't John Watson are you?"

No, it couldn't have been, I thought. I saw Sherlock's sudden reaction. He looked completely out of sorts and lost in time. What was more startling was how he regained his composure almost instantaneously.

"The very same. Please, take a seat." Sherlock revived the accent he had put on over the phone.

I moved my chair closer to him, giving the woman room to pass. This certainly was unexpected.

"Do you still want to shoot her?" I whispered into Sherlock's ear. He swatted away in response like I was an annoying fly. Clearly he was upset with the unfolding events.

"Forgive me, but wasn't it a man I was talking to on the phone?" Sherlock asked without a hint of the panic he had expressed moments before.

"Oh, that was my son. He would have come himself but he had to be at work. Your advert said that you have found a wedding ring?"

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment as he analyzed the old crone.

"Here it is." He brought the ring itself out from his pocket.

"Oh bless you dear! That is the very one! My daughter will be so relieved!"

It seemed the case had taken a dead end. Sherlock seemed to disagree.

"I'm happy to be of help. You are lucky I noticed it among the mess outside Lauriston Gardens. Well, my dog found it actually, he has a habit of sniffing out treasures, that's why I called him Jim."

It was hard listening to Sherlock's northern voice without cracking up. I was quite relieved inside with our guest, though I'm sure my roommate didn't share the same feeling.

"Silly girl. She's only been married a year and already she is losing her ring. Thank you ever so much. It isn't often you have a young man like yourself do something so kind." The old woman spoke.

"Sometimes people are a surprise," Sherlock said in gest. "Do you mind if I ask for your address? Just to make sure the ring goes to its proper owner you see, not that I have any doubts."

"Of course dear, it's Duncan Street, Number 13, Houndsditch."

Sherlock brought his hands together and placed them on his lips.

"Sorry? I don't think that address goes by the Brixton Road." He pointed out.

"Oh, no dear! You asked where I live. My daughter Sally lives at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham, with her husband Tom Dennis. Lovely boy, when he isn't drunk that is."

Maybe we had walked into the wrong alley. There was always the off chance that the owner would find the ring missing and send someone after it, rather than the killer. The mystery confused me to no end. Why was this Sally's ring at a murder scene? Was Tom Dennis involved? The more I thought about it the more I felt faint. Still, it kept my mind off other things.

"Well, I have no reason to hold onto it any more. I'm happy to have helped." Sherlock handed over the ring, and our chance of finding a lead.

"Again, bless you my dear. I'll make sure the silly girl is more careful next time. I'll leave you to your breakfast. Farewell."

I watched the old crone struggle off of her seat and leave the coffee shop.

"Well that was a waste of time." I said with a much calmer demeanour.

Sherlock gave no answer. He tapped one finger against the table repeatedly. I thought he was frustrated at first, but I came to see that he was tapping seconds. I looked out of the window to see if the old woman was still there, but she had disappeared in moments. It was impossible for someone her age. Sherlock darted up in a flash. He hurried out of the door and in my confused state I followed behind.

He was surprisingly quick for someone whom I had assumed focused on intellect rather than physical prowess. He shot two glances, one down the street and another down a thin alleyway to the right. I grasped my father's cane hard as I followed him in full sprint through the murky alleyway. There, at the end of the alley was the woman entering a Taxi. The vehicle was soon speeding off before we could reach it.

"Clever. Very, very clever." Sherlock held his hands behind his head as he caught his breath.

I leant forward and rested on my knees. Sprinting twice in one morning on an empty stomach was a shock to the system.

"How the hell did she do that!?" I shouted in frustration.

"Because Watson, she was a he. Just as she left, I noticed the underlining hair visible just below the wig. It was much darker than someone of her age would suggest, not to mention her thinly cut, rough and darkened nails, like that of a man who works in construction. It was an accomplice, someone who could pose well as an old crone."

He stared at me as I began laughing uncontrollably.

"You find this funny?" He asked.

"You bloody idiot Sherlock! All that deduction crap and you couldn't tell that she was a man! Ha!" I held my stomach, refusing to stop myself.

"It works when I am looking for it. She gave off all the signs of being an old crone."

He watched me laugh away in the middle of the street for a moment before a smile crept onto his face.

"I guess it was a daft thing to miss." He said, finally amused.

It was a good thing that we were alone, or else we would have disturbed the whole neighbourhood.

"Ol' Jim often go treasure hunting with you, does he!?"

"Oh, alright! You said about the dog back at the apartment, it was first thing that came to mind."

Even with his mistake he tried to piece together his thought process.

"I'm not infallible, Watson. I don't pretend to be. I wouldn't be at university if I was."

I wiped a tear away from my eye and caught him looking at me with curiosity.

"What?" I said, holding in one last chuckle.

"It's a rush, isn't it? Other thoughts die when you are in the thick of it. It takes you away."

With the laughter dying down, I began to see why he would say such a thing.

"So, you're a thrill seeker? Is that why you want to go around catching criminals and interrogating old ladies?" He started to walk away. "Hey! You keep going on about me finding it exciting. Alright, I'll admit it gets things out of my head. Are you happy?"

He didn't answer. With his hands in his pockets, he made his way back through the alley.

"Hello!? Are you ignoring me now?"

"It's rather hard to do that." He answered at last. "I don't thrill seek. I simply search for a way to shut off the boredom. I need to think, Watson. I need to keep the cogs turning, or else it all falls apart."

We were back outside the café.

"Couldn't you have found a safer way to entertain yourself?" I asked.

"Is there any better life than this Watson?"

He turned to me and stared with such focus. I had a quick, easy answer to his question, but it didn't come out. His very glare shut me down and made me doubt it. It was a dangerous way to live. A stupid way. It wasn't for me, and yet it was becoming an unyielding magnet. I still felt the mystery of the wedding ring eating at me.

We took the opportunity to have breakfast inside, the waitress having given us our order after a couple of strange looks. Apparently she had seen our quick escape.

"So what now?" I asked him while biting into the toast I added to my order.

"No doubt the address she… he, gave us, was a red herring. To Houndsditch, Watson. To Houndsditch."


	6. Chapter 6 - Eyes in the Ratways

I was left alone in the apartment again. I'd taken the chance to tidy the place a bit, placing the scattered pages of the day's newspaper back on the desk. The Brixton mystery was in the papers. It left a few details out, most noticeably those discovered by Sherlock. There was no mention of the message written in blood, or the ring. I felt foolish thinking about my outburst, but Sherlock Holmes was someone that had confronted me about my past in a way no one else had dared to do. I didn't want to hear it - it made it too real.

I found myself staring at the wall, my eyes trailing along the white patterns upon the wallpaper. The mystery of murder had no escape from my head, and I no escape from it. We had an American man who had died by poisoning without a struggle, a German message written on the wall that didn't belong to the victim, and a ring that seemingly had no connection to them. No wonder Scotland Yard was in circles over it. I certainly was.

My thoughts were interrupted when I heard the front door unlock. True enough my roommate had returned, the deerstalker no longer on his head.

"That blasted dog is still whimpering. Now where did I put my revolver?"

"Sherlock! Don't you dare!" I shouted.

He put his hands up as if _I_ was about to shoot _him_.

"It was only a thought," He said weakly. "I've confirmed my suspicions, if you are interested."

"I am. So, no old woman at Houndstitch?"

He shook his head.

"You doubt my judgement? There was never any old crone at Duncan Street, but there was an informative painter and decorator called Keswick. Not a single person called Dennis in sight, unless he was hiding behind the wallpaper."

Sherlock had no chance to take off his jacket before his phone rang. He barely said a word on his end, but I saw his eyes roll.

"Now that is interesting. Won't be long," He hung up. "That was Gregson. Apparently he has a discovery for us."

He was back out the door in seconds.

"To Scotland Yard then?" I asked while retrieving my own jacket.

"The very same. You will find this job costs a fortune in cab fairs."

I could tell that Sherlock's head was whirring away beside me as the taxi sped towards Scotland Yard. He stared intently out of his side window, His fingers occasionally tapping the knuckles on his other hand.

"Any leads after the ring fiasco?" I broke his concentration.

"Now, now. No need to rush things."

I took it as his way of saying no.

"What does Gregson want anyway?"

"He apparently has the culprit under lock and key."

I was stunned.

"Really? Well, so much for you."

"Ha! You think Gregson has beaten me, do you? No. The poor chap he has incarcerated is innocent. I'm sure of that."

I'd started to ignore his arrogance. I did hope inside that it was an end to the matter, though Sherlock didn't seem to agree.

"I still stand by what I said. I don't want anything to do with your life." I brought up the touchy subject in hope I could keep to it.

He brought his gaze back to the passing buildings.

"Then why are you here?" He asked, no longer focused on me.

"I'll see the end of this case, but that's it, Sherlock. No more."

I could see the small grin in the corner of his mouth. The devil didn't believe me.

"I mean it! I don't want to end up dead before I can pass my degree. You're still mad to go running after murderers."

His hands came together and rested against his lower lip.

"Madness. A subjective term from outside viewers. It's not the first time I've been accused, but I don't listen to the ignorant."

"Oh, cheers." I answered sarcastically.

"You call me mad, yet you lean against a cane you don't need."

"I told you to s-"

The cab slowed and Sherlock was out the door before it had even stopped. A number of notes landed on the chair next to me.

"Be a friend and pay the man his due, would you?"

I wanted to punch him there and then, but an assault outside Scotland Yard really would have branded me with the title of mad. I handed the notes forward and watched the driver reach back. He grasped them with an unsteady hand and grunted a quiet thanks. Clearly he was in a mood that matched my own.

It was a sight to see, the outside of the building. It was one of the many landmarks I knew about but had never expected to see myself visiting. Police officers in full uniform were around the place, as well as a man in a light brown jacket enjoying a smoke. I'd lost sight of Sherlock so I decided to hurry along, cane in hand. The bright lobby brought with it a fuller sense of the unknown. This was not the profession I had planned to become a part of, but I was intrigued nonetheless. Across the lobby, standing out from the crowd, was Sherlock, sitting on a couch, looking quite at home and with a grin on his face.

"Have you come here before?" I asked as a joined him with the cane on my lap.

"I had some fleeting visits. Since then I have found myself here more and more as my use has come to light for them. Sadly, the gratitude for it is still slacking behind."

A familiar looking detective approached with a grin as great as Sherlock's.

"Brace yourself John, we are about to hear some news with a vengeance!"

Sherlock immediately rose and ensured that his clothes looked presentable. Anyone would have thought it normal but I was starting to learn his mannerisms. He wasn't standing out of courtesy, he was doing it to be on the same level as the detective.

"You look almost halve as excited as you sounded on the phone, Tobias." Sherlock said with a hint of mockery.

"That's still detective Gregson to you, but I can't help but feel that way. Lestrade is off on some witch hunt, yet I'm the one with the culprit!"

I stood up and lent on my father's cane.

"Are you certain? It isn't a woman named Rachel, is it?" I said, trying to make myself part of the situation. If I was going to be there I might as well be of use, even if it was just to try and match Sherlock's wit.

"Are you alright, son? You had that cane before."

He completely bypassed my comment and went straight for my weak spot, either deliberately or not.

"His leg is fine Detective. It's something else that's injured." Sherlock gave me a fleeting glance before putting his hands behind his back.

"Right. I'll explain it in my office."

We were lead further into the building. The hustle and bustle of the day was well in swing. Crime waits for no man, and no one was getting a rest that Sunday. I took a glimpse through some office windows as we passed. Each ranged from officers looking frantically at a wall covered in a spider's web of photographs and locations, to lone men and women tapping away on their computers. I couldn't imagine Sherlock wanting the office life. He seemed more alive when on the scene.

Gregson's office was quite small, though the sheer amount of furniture, desks and filing cabinets could have made that an illusion. A cold cup of coffee was on his desk with his name printed on it. I noticed a small chip in the corner. I blinked hard, realizing that Sherlock's antics were starting to rub off on me.

"Fire away, Gregson. Tell it all." Sherlock lent back in his chair, his leg resting on his knee and his fingers locked together. Anyone giving a quick glance would assume the office belonged to him.

"I followed up on our victim, Mr Enoch Drebber and discovered where he has been staying for the last few weeks," The detective's voice was quick, the excitement clearly driving him on much faster than he intended. "He is in fact a doctor by trade from New York. I'm not sure why he was over here, but that's beside the point. I found out that he has been staying in a boarding house called Charpentier's Boarding Establishment."

"Fascinating. How on earth did you discover this?" Sherlock spoke, hiding his condemnation, but I was sure it was there.

"We discovered a rental receipt for the place tucked into the back of his wallet. It was recent."

I hadn't looked in the wallet and hadn't noticed a receipt on the bench at the crime scene, but the lack of change in Sherlock's expression hinted towards him knowing it was there. My companion made his way over to a water cooler by the door and helped himself.

"Do go on, don't mind me."

Gregson cleared his throat.

"I checked out the place, and spoke with the proprietress, Madame Charpentier. Her daughter was there as well, a fine looking girl she was."

Sherlock stared at him. The detective cleared his throat again, louder this time, and tried to hide the redness appearing on his face.

"Anyway. The daughter looked upset, and that's when I caught the scent."

"A bloodhound on the trail. Sharp as ever, Gregson." Sherlock humoured him.

"I brought up our victim and asked if they had heard of the affair. As soon as I asked, the girl burst into tears."

"How suspicious." Sherlock said with an exaggerated demeanour.

"Well, it turns out that our victim had come back drunk one night and made the moves on the poor girl, even going as far as to try and drag her away. Her brother was heard threatening to kill him over it. Strange that we should find the man dead just hours later, eh?"

Sherlock's eyes fell to the plastic cup in his hands, as if there was some clue inside.

"And it is this brother that you have under lock and key?"

"Arthur Charpentier, our culprit."

Sherlock scrunched the cup and tossed it into the waste basket before clapping.

"I must congratulate you, Detective. Finding our culprit so quickly must have been no easy feat."

"It was not. I thought you would appreciate it, being a thinking boy… man," He quickly corrected himself. Sherlock's lip twitched slightly. Did being called a boy sting, I wondered? "Arthur has confessed to following Drebber during the night," Gregson continued. "But he won't admit to murdering him. He was a member of his majesty's navy, and had connections to the pharmaceutical industry through family ties. It wouldn't be too much of a jump to assume he knew his stuff about poisoning."

With every word, I could see Sherlock's eyes moving about the room as he took it all in. It did make sense. Charpentier was enraged at the man Drebber for continuously treating his sister in such a way, he followed him and then poisoned the man. Some things didn't match up however.

"Excellent work Detective, most excellent. There are some missing details though, and Watson here is sure to fill you in."

"Oh, God…" I whispered. He was doing it again.

"What do you mean missing details?" Gregson asked sharply as he stood out of his chair." I can assure you that it all fits!"

Gregson was not having it, and I was most disappointed that there was more to it, and at the same time, intrigued as to where it would go.

"It does fit, but it only draws half of the picture." Sherlock looked at me with an encouraging smile.

There was no way I was going to get out of it, so I thought hard.

"Well… the blood? Why was there a message on the wall written in German that wasn't the victim's?" I began.

"Obviously it was the killer's blood." Gregson answered without hesitation.

"Then why was the situation so civil if both men were at each other's throats? Why walk together into an abandoned house with someone who had harassed your sister, going as far as to light a candle and leave no sign of a struggle on the victim? Why would Drebber take the poison in the first place?"

I surprised myself. Suddenly it was all flowing out.

"My companion is right, Detective. These are some outliers that disagree with your assessment. No sign was present of the poison being forced down the victim's throat, and there was no reason that Drebber would follow the man into an abandoned house."

Gregson looked most disappointed.

"I had considered what you've brought up, but nothing points to anyone else having any reason to kill the man."

The whole thing seemed rushed to me, and I was appalled at how Gregson had jumped at the chance to assume the case closed. I was getting more of a flavour for the rivalry between him and Lestrade. Judging by Sherlock's way of going round the office and only half listening to the detective, he was completely unconvinced by any of it.

"There is one person you are overlooking-"

"Don't you dare say it!" Gregson cut him off. "It is not to do with Stangerson. Lestrade has already fallen down that rabbit hole."

Sherlock laughed loudly, filling the office with his amusement.

"And what a large rabbit hole it must be! Has he had any luck finding this man?"

I'd already forgotten the name, though it rang a bell. I'd looked fleetingly over the particulars discovered in Drebber's wallet. A business card for a Doctor Stangerson was inside.

"He hasn't found him, no. Not that it will do him any good. So they were both doctors, so what? It doesn't mean he was murdered by the man."

He was writing the idea off so quickly that I was starting to doubt the man's capabilities as a detective. It must have been how Sherlock felt most of the time. He had referred to them as 'bumbling plods' after all.

"I would be careful Tobias. Your rivalry with Lestrade could well be the end of your career." Sherlock said as he span round in his chair to face the door.

"I don't see you with any culprit for someone so cocky!"

"Time and tide! Come on Watson, you have some studying to catch up on, correct?"

He opened the office door and put out a courteous hand for me to walk past. I did so without saying a word, hoping not to light Gregson's temper.

"Goodbye Tobias."

"Gregson!" He roared back.

The door closed shut behind us. Sherlock marched at a hefty pace towards the exit with his hands firmly in his pockets. His eyes showed a powerful focus that ignored their surroundings.

"You have had a glimpse of blind ambition, John. It's a detriment to the truth. So often a person will latch onto what they want to be real, and forsake all else, regardless of evidence to the contrary. Politics, religion, careers, it plagues them all! That's why I have little to do with it."

It wasn't a common occurrence, but deep down I agreed with him. As weird as Sherlock's ways were, he did take the effort to not plunge into the 'filth' so to speak and stay well on the side-lines where he could watch it all unfold. It was something I had once condemned about him that I came to admire.

"So that's it? Are we done with it all?"

His smile shot my hopes down with startling efficiency.

"Neither men have any idea about the truth of it all, but I have a suspicion that Lestrade has at least spotted the track," He hailed a cabby as he spoke. "I would like a word with this Stangerson."

"But we don't know where he is. Christ, Scotland Yard doesn't know! How can you find out?"

He gave me a toothy grin.

"Because Scotland Yard lacks my resources." He chuckled.

It was less than half an hour later that we were traversing the underbelly of London's urban street. I had no idea where I was but Sherlock seemed to know it like the back of his hand. We had stopped off to buy some snacks on the way, though Sherlock had stocked up a little too much and was now carrying two bags full of sandwiches and drink. We traveled down a flight of stone steps, down into the subways.

"Is there any point in me asking why we are here?" I felt like a dog on a leash.

"Because I want to introduce you to my friends."

He placed the plastic bags down and whistled with both hands to his mouth. Nothing happened at first, but then out of the dark came a group of young children rushing towards us. I stepped back, keeping my cane firmly in hand.

Sherlock fell to one knee and braced himself as a number of the kids took hold of him. They were hugging him from every angle. It was the most surreal sight I had seen all year.

"Mr Sherlock!" One cried out.

"My, my. You are getting tall, aren't you, Jared? And Lucinda, you still have a radiant smile."

I had no words to say. I simply groaned in confusion.

"This is my friend, John Watson."

My eyes came up to meet his and in a flash a kid was wrapping his arms around me.

"Are you a bad man catcher too!?" he asked enthusiastically.

"Err… yeah, I guess."

While I was waiting for the boy to let go, I watched the children ravage the plastic bags and tuck into the food. It hadn't been for us after all.

"Sometimes my casual walks have more of a purpose, John."

I was blown away.

"You do this for the homeless kids? Sherlock… that's…"

"Oh, don't worry. There is reason. Like I said, Scotland Yard has its methods. I have mine."

He sat down beside one of the girls who was scoffing a sandwich so quick I thought she might choke.

"Now, have any of you managed to come across this bad man?"

Most of them came up blank, but one did come forth quite excitedly.

"Mr Sherlock! I founded out-"

"Found out." Sherlock corrected him politely.

"I found out that the bad man goes to a haldays hotel!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Sherlock, he doesn't mean Stangerson, does he?" I asked in a daze.

"And you thought Scotland Yard was superior. Well done Barry!"

Sherlock took a chocolate bar out of his pocket and handed it to him after playfully tapping it on his head. The boy laughed and tore at the wrapper as soon as he could.

"I will be back tomorrow guys. Don't get into too much mischief!"

His hands were back in his pockets and his professional demeanour had returned. The kids were waving. I did so back, feeling compelled to. I rushed after my companion who was taking large strides back to the taxi.

"What the hell, Sherlock!? You use kids as spies!?"

"Most of these children have lost their families. They have no one and nothing left. In return for food and comfort, they are given a purpose. They help me find those that wish not to be found. No one pays attention to children scuttling around. A police officer is a warning sign, but a child is an invisible set of eyes. I've had them search for him ever since Scotland Yard proved itself incapable. Rest assured Watson, Stangerson will not hide for long."

We were back in the taxi before I could think of anything else to say.

"Halliday's private hotel, driver. Poor child, still can't pronounce very well. Soon enough, I'll change that."

I'd learnt something new about my roommate. I didn't know if I liked it or not.


	7. Chapter 7 - A Private Interruption

"You're not suggesting we go in and apprehend the man are you?" I asked my companion, as we stood at the steps to Halliday's private hotel.

"That may not be necessary. Just keep your wits about you, and unloosen that top button."

"My what?"

Sherlock was charging through the door like a madman before I could answer. He had cast away his jacket, leaving it on the steps of the hotel. I ran after the loon, praying that he knew what he was doing. I found him at the front desk, his shirt screwed up, his hair a mess and his cuffs pulled up.

"Hey lady. Do you know where Mr Stangerson is? Mum said he needs to get his arse… sorry, bum back home."

She looked out of sorts, obviously surprised by Sherlock's performance.

"Umm… Mr Stangerson? Who are you?"

"He's our dad. They had a row again and when he does that he runs off to a hotel to 'cool off'. Do you know what room he's in? Oi, Johnny! I found the lady!"

I rushed up to him, trying to fit into the situation as best as I could.

"Does she know where he is!? Mum's going mad at home. She's text me three times already!"

"Then answer her, you muppet! Sorry, we really need to find him before she throws another fit."

"Right, right… he's on the third floor. If you would follow me."

"Cheers, lady."

And like that, we were being led towards his room.

"Well played, you are a natural, Watson." Sherlock whispered into my ear.

"Isn't this against protocol?" I asked.

"Probably, but a strong performance can leave even a professional in the dark on what to do."

It clearly wasn't a busy time for the hotel. Most guests were probably resting on the Sunday, or out in the city. The woman leading us took a few glances at the cane I was holding. Sherlock acted as soon as he noticed.

"He'll go nuts when he finds out you scratched his cane, Johnny!"

"It wasn't me!" I said back, doing my best not to blow cover.

The corridors grew tighter as we drew in on our destination. The middle floors seemed smaller than the ones below. The outside of the hotel didn't give off this shape at all. I half expected the place to turn into a house of horrors. Giving the fact that a murderer could well have been inside, my nerves were getting worse.

When we reached the right room, the sight outside was enough to startle the receptionist.

"Most interesting." Sherlock dropped the act and made his way slowly towards the door.

"Is that… blood?" I whispered.

A pool of liquid crimson was flowing from under the door, and it was fresh.

"The key if you will, I believe the man inside is quite hurt." Sherlock requested without a hint of worry.

The receptionist fuddled around with a set of keys on her belt. Once she had found the right one, the door was quickly opened. Inside, the room was dark and the curtain was drawn. My ears were filled with the sound of the woman screaming. Right next to us was a man dressed in a smart suit, a knife plunged through his heart.

"Dead. Our investigation however…"

Sherlock scanned the room in a flash and drew the curtains.

"…not so much!"

He swung his legs out of the window and onto the balcony outside. I hurried over to catch the sight that called Sherlock to action.

"Down there." Sherlock pointed.

The assailant was making a run for it. A tan jacket and hat was covering his identity. Sherlock began climbing down the fire escape that snaked the side of the building.

"Go left, John!"

I followed suit. Once we had our feet firmly back on the ground, we split up. I soon found myself back on the streets and continued to sprint along the pedestrian path. I pushed my way through the afternoon rush, desperate to get ahead to cut the attacker off. As I did so, I was sent crashing into a couple with their arms locked. My father's cane went flying as it escaped my grip. I watched on with wide eyes as the cane rolled into the street. I turned towards where the alleyway met the road, and then to my father's prized possession. I was paralyzed by the swift moment of indecision.

I made a choice. Being as mindful as I could, I dodged between the busy traffic. Thank God London is a busy city or I would have been killed. I received more than one horn to get out of the way regardless. I didn't care, I just had to reach the cane before it could be crushed. Scooping it up in my arms, I reached the opposite side of the street. I was just in time to spot our runner reach a taxi. Sherlock was sprinting behind at a surprising speed, but he was too late. As the taxi veered off in the other direction, Sherlock took out his phone and snapped a quick picture.

What had I done? I'd let a murderer escape, for the carved wood in my hands. I didn't want to cross the street. I didn't want to face up to it. Instead, I focused on the cane, checking it for breaks or scratches.

"Where were you, John!?" Sherlock was next to me before I knew it.

"I dropped… I couldn't…"

"That was our chance! Now he could be God knows where!"

I watched my roommate circle back on himself on the pathway, his fingers darting through his hair in frustration.

"It isn't over yet," He said calmly, allowing his arms to full to his side. "We need to get back up there. No doubt the receptionist has already called the police."

Sherlock had shut off his anger in moments. I watched him cross the street, leaving me alone to think. I lent against the chained fence behind me, feeling every bit as stupid as I had back at the apartment. The cane was alright, but it was little relief knowing what I had done. I must have looked like a bumbling idiot.

After a while, I led myself across the road, wondering what Sherlock's reaction would be the next time he saw me. I sat on the steps of the hotel. The same thoughts that had continued to pester me at night returned. I let the past hold on, because I was scared to let it go. I had to protect it, prove to it that I was worthy of the future my Dad had sacrificed. Only I could do that, I thought. My father would live on.

"John?"

I heard Lestrade's voice. Curious. I hadn't heard the sirens.

"Let me guess. Sherlock is inside isn't he?" The detective said.

"It's like you know him." I said half-heartedly.

"No one really knows him."

Sherlock didn't say a word to me as the investigation began. I couldn't make up my mind on whether that was a good thing or not. The whole situation made me uncomfortable, so I sat to the side on one of the hotel's intricately carved chairs and let the whole thing unfold without my input.

I had been right about the victim. The knife had punctured the heart, causing him to die almost instantly. In the man's suit pocket was his wallet with I.D belonging to a Doctor Joseph Stangerson.

"And Gregson thought he was on the right trail, bah!" Lestrade roared.

Sherlock's eye movements were slower than usual. He didn't have the smile that took over his face like an excited hunter in the thick of it. Instead he looked sombre. I kept my mouth shut.

As Sherlock explored the man's wallet, his eyes were suddenly filled with realization.

"Now, where have I seen this woman before?"

He took out a photograph, its corners creased.

"That's the same woman from the picture in Enoch Drebber's wallet!" Lestrade announced.

"Two doctors cross the Atlantic and end up dead in London. Apart from their profession, nothing connects them, except for this woman… and a wedding ring."

Sherlock had found his spring again. I was somewhat relieved, but I kept quiet all the same.

"Did you find anything else out about the victim's marital status!?" Sherlock shouted in a rush.

"No, he wasn't married from what we could tell."

I caught a glimpse of the photograph in Lestrade's hand. It was of a wedding.

"This woman could very well be the final link we need. Look at the bride you see in the photograph, and the groom. It's Stangerson. Clearly this is not a happy marriage. No woman would have such a look of fear on what is meant to be the happiest day of her life." Sherlock began his deduction.

"She could be nervous. I remember my wedding-"

"Yes thank you, shut up," Sherlock cut Lestrade off. "The face isn't enough to give it away alone, but her arm is limp and his grip is vice like - you can see the way her skin flexes under his fingers. She was pushed into this marriage against her will. No doubt the ring belonged to her."

"And somehow it came into Drebber's possession?" Lestrade deduced.

"No. It came to the killer. But why was Drebber a victim? What brought him into the fold?"

Sherlock paced the room again and again.

"Lestrade, find the identity of this woman and discover if she was suffering from any illness."

Sherlock pushed his way through the police force and left the room.

"Where are you going now!?" Lestrade called after him.

"Why, I have my studies to crack on with. Come along, Watson."

Again I felt like a dog at his beck and call. We left the detectives to their work.

"That was…" Again I was blown away.

"Impressive? Thought provoking? Unnecessary?"

That last word was a dig, it had to be.

"You blame me, don't you? Well don't, because I blame myself! I know a killer's on the loose because I was too weak! I always am, alright! Is that what you want me to say?"

"Yes!" Sherlock shouted back.

I replied with silence. I hadn't expected such a cold response, and then he hit me with something even worse.

"John… You aren't alright, are you?"

Another statement, made into a question to force me to face it. I let my eyes fall to the cane in my hand.

"I'm fine Sherlock… just don't."

"There are people who can help. You don't have to walk through it alone."

"Stop it!"

I ran past him. The hotel became a blur as I made my way down each floor without thinking. There I was again, heading away from everything behind me. How dare he… I hated him at first, until I caught sight of the flashing lights outside the front lobby. Police cars were parked in a row right outside the hotel. This isn't the world I had expected to find after leaving my past behind. It was a chance to become someone different, and maybe come to terms with things. I was wrong. I couldn't do it anymore.

I'd hailed a cab, and left it all behind again. Sherlock would make his own way back, and I wouldn't say a word to him. I barely processed what little he did say as I sat in the living room at Baker Street. The room fell into complete silence. Had he given up or accepted how things were? I didn't care. The cane rested against the chair beside me, and my thoughts continued to prattle on, locking me into them.

It was dark by the time life returned to the room. I never did do any studying that day.

"Curious time."

I blinked sharply and dared to glance at him. Sherlock lent against the fireplace. His breath smelled of cigarette smoke. He was looking over the features of the clock on the mantel piece.

"We do have our similarities after all."

I watched him as he removed the clock's backing and re-inserted its batteries. He tinkered with its mechanisms as he looked back at me. He knew exactly how much to turn it for the right time, as if he had done it a thousand times.

"We aren't similar. I'm nothing like you." I answered gruffly.

"I have often found myself at odds with the thoughts that manifest up here," he tapped his temple. "Utter silence is hard to achieve in London. Clocks though, they are easy to silence. But as much as you want it to, it won't stop time, or reverse its effects."

"It wasn't time that… Just shut up." I interrupted, tired of his speeches.

He approached the couch on the other end of the room, one slow step at a time. I was getting used to music filling the room, but that night it was very different. The erratic notes from Sherlock's mind had gone, replaced with something that pulled me in. Slow, methodical, he played every note of his violin with such professionalism. I let him play on, unable to interrupt. He was telling the tale of a tragedy, and with each smooth movement of his bow, I remembered.

He was in tune with it all. Happiness turned to confusion, then sadness, then anger. One moment I could see a pair of eyes, then all that was left was a coffin, lowered to its final resting place. It seemed impossible it could be anything other than the box in front of me. To think what lied within, I couldn't do it. I was unable to fathom how Sherlock's melody could invoke the feeling in me that it did. Maybe I was wrong after all. Perhaps his playing was placing my thoughts in tune instead.

For the first time, I let someone see my tears. That was all it was. No sobbing, no look of pain, just flowing tears as I rested my head against my hand and let the music consume me.


	8. Chapter 8 - A Deadly Game

I felt like I had been in that room before. Head bowed and with a mind filled with uncertainty, I sensed the bitter taste of déjà vu. None of it was truly familiar really, only the circumstance. One thing was different - I was there of my own accord. Small words were all that left my lips, but the Councillor seemed sure from the little she had to work with. It was groundwork, at least.

What she had to say had probably passed my ears before, but this time I had more control of my senses, some of it slipped in. Bursts of anger and frustration flared inside me, just suppressed enough to hold it in, unlike other times that I cared not to think of. Her advice sounded so easy, but the reality made it all the harder. I couldn't let it be patronising, I kept telling myself, no matter how much my head kept arguing that it was.

 _She's trying to help me. She's trying to help me._

I fixated on that phrase over and over again because I didn't know where to go without it. Sometimes I zoned out, but she was patient. Less and less questions were left up in the air as I began to speak out. Nothing had seemed so painful in my life. My foot brushed against the soft chair, begging to take me away again and again. My hands gripped each armrest as anchors against it. I was fighting many battles at once, and the stress rose. I resisted the constant urge to reach out for my father's cane. I kept myself seated firmly. Oh, how I had wished for none of it. Why couldn't life have been simpler?

I can still remember one piece of advice she gave to me clearly.

"If you find it hard to let others know how you feel, there are other ways of unburdening it. You can write how you feel, like a journal. No one else has to see it."

I didn't want my thoughts playing on my mind back then, much less write about them. What she said stuck with me though.

The session came to an end. Words of bravery and the start of something new came to me in a blur. Much of what she said after that fails to come to mind today, but that first agonising step helped, even if I didn't know it at first. I'd lent on the outside of the door for a time. A great weight felt lifted, only for it to be replaced with another. Most students had gone home for the day, or were busy studying.

"John!"

I had only come across Stamford a handful of times since the start of term, but now it couldn't have come at a worse time. I stood in front of the plaque screwed to the door. It was daft thinking back. He had been there longer than me and was most probably aware of what the room was for. I could see in his eyes he was dying to ask, his inquisitive nature coming out as usual.

"I was… just asking something. What are you up to?" I asked, reflecting the impending questions coming my way.

"I've just finished my last lecture."

He continued to stare at me as if waiting for a que to continue. He was never able to hold back.

"Fine… what did you want to ask?" I said reluctantly, gripping my father's cane.

"Your roommate," I was pleasantly surprised, and a little relieved that his question was nothing to do with my current state. "How are things going with Sherlock? Not driven you out yet, has he?"

"No… not yet, anyway." I didn't hide my frustration. We hadn't spoken much since the hotel incident. A couple of days had passed, and he kept himself to himself, totally engrossed in his murder mystery.

"Darn… there goes that bet. I've never lost." He tutted.

"This happen often then?" I asked, not surprised in the slightest if it was true.

"Well, you know him by now, surely?"

"I suppose… maybe a bit too much." I whispered.

"Or not enough!" he laughed. "Anyway, I'll dash off. I'm behind on my work as it is."

I watched Stamford bumble away. He never was made for athletics so it was amusing to watch, though I felt a bit guilty afterwards. He was a kind person, and I'd stood up for him in the past because of that. He was someone to talk to now besides my eccentric roommate - A roommate I was not looking forward to seeing again.

When I opened the door to our shared apartment, Sherlock wasn't in sight. I checked each room as quiet as I could, but sure enough the place was empty. He was usually back before me. I didn't mind as it gave me some time to catch up on my studying, and a bit of television. I'd barely sat down when my luck was shattered.

"A triumph! A sheer, bloody triumph!" I groaned at the sound of his voice. "Ah, Watson. Good to see you." He spoke as if I had been gone for ages.

"Make a breakthrough?" I asked meekly and with little interest.

"I am so close to putting this case to rest. A couple of pieces allude me, but when discovered, the whole image will reveal itself."

He placed a small bottle on the desk. It looked normal enough and I paid no heed to it. Sherlock checked his watch, ignoring the clock on the mantel piece. I noticed that its hands were silent.

"Not long now."

He paced back and forth. A common occurrence, and one I was growing used to. His usual thoughtful scowl was not there however. He wasn't thinking, he was passing the time.

"Waiting for something?" I asked, annoyed enough at last to speak.

"Not something. Someone." He answered, both hands going to his chin as if praying.

"If we are lucky, maybe the killer will just walk through the door?" I jested, though it was the last thing I wanted in truth. I'd been frightened enough at the idea of being in the same place as the culprit since the café incident.

"Who knows? Maybe we have passed the man and not known it." Sherlock said, oblivious or ignorant of my sarcastic tone.

Some time passed, and it felt like a waste to me. I'd left the television off to avoid the usual bickering about his concentration, and there was no way I could study with his constant pacing. I cared not to admit it, but I was interested in seeing what came up. I hated the idea of being involved any longer, but the mystery continued to burn at me like an itch that refused to go away.

"Oh, dear God! That poor mutt is still dragging itself through life. They should be merciful and be done with it." The whimpering from next door returned, and I couldn't help but smile at my roommate's complaining. It was the only time he broke out of his perfect charade.

"They are taking it to the vet today," I assured him. "So no more 'whimpering' after that. It's just you I have to put up with then." I whispered the last part.

The sound of the dog was joined by the ring of the doorbell.

"At last. Lestrade does like to take his time."

Sherlock answered the door, giddy and impatient. Had he invited the detective, I wondered. He really must have had a breakthrough for it to be that serious.

"Come in. Cup of tea perhaps?" Sherlock invited him in.

"No need for the patronising, boy," Lestrade clearly wasn't amused. "I hope you have something to say on the matter of Drebber's death."

A victorious smile fell upon Sherlock's face. He paced over to the table where the curious bottle resided and tapped against it lightly with two fingers.

"First, I need just two pieces of information, and I will have all I need to set you down the right path."

Lestrade sighed.

"And here I was thinking that you might actually have something for me. Fine, what is it?" The detective asked.

"First, the identity of the woman in the photograph. When I spoke with you yesterday, you told me that her name was Lucy Stangerson. Did you managed to track her medical history?"

I was behind on what my strange roommate and his 'acquaintances' were up to the last few days, so I listened attentively.

"I've got them right here," I heard Gregson's faint voice. Sure enough, he entered the apartment with a folder in hand. "You wouldn't believe the trouble it took to get these. They aren't the actual files of course, but I recorded what we could get hold of."

Sherlock said no words of welcome and instead took the file in hand. His eyes danced over every line, and with each I could tell his mind was afire with solutions to the great puzzle.

"As I suspected. The poor woman is gone," He snapped the file shut.

"Gone? What do you mean gone?" I asked.

"Gone from this world, Watson. The woman is dead."

The word was chilling. Had she been another victim, I pondered. Sherlock seemed to understand my confusion.

"Her passing is not to do with our killer. At least, it doesn't appear to be his modus operandi. Mrs Stangerson was suffering from major depressive disorder, as recorded after her marriage. My suspicions arising from the photograph are confirmed. She was barely married a year when she passed away tragically during an operation. It seemed the woman had developed a blood clot from a previous wound."

Both detectives had read the file, Sherlock was simply going over the facts. Probably for my benefit.

"The doctor in charge of the op was Martin Greensley," Gregson spoke. "He was one of their best, yet he was sacked and charged for medical negligence. He denied it but was found guilty."

"How did she die?" I asked, lost at the situation.

"There was a fatal substance found on the tools used." Gregson told me. "They hadn't been properly sterilised, you see. The contaminant from the previous use resulted in blood poisoning."

I swallowed hard. The thought made me nervous. If I was to become a doctor myself, then avoiding such tragedies was of my upmost priority.

"That's horrible… but, what does it have to do with the case? How was it the doctor's fault that the equipment was contaminated?"

Sherlock grinned at my question.

"It has everything to do with the case. It seems that our unlucky doctor was caught tampering with the equipment before the operation. That is what they thought at least. I'm sure however, that he was framed."

He picked up the small bottle and poured out two pills onto the table.

"We didn't think much of these when conducting the search, yet I found them too curious to pass up."

The two detectives came closer.

"You took the bottle? Why? Stangerson died of a stab wound."

I hadn't noticed them in my conflicted state, but the bottle had indeed been resting on the bedside cabinet in Stangerson's hotel room.

"They could well be pain killers, but on closer inspection, neither show such signs. There is no brand, letters or anything to distinguish their purpose. Stangerson had no illness to speak of, so here we are. I said there were two things I needed to know. This is the final piece."

Both detectives stared at him, expecting an answer. I did the same, hoping that it was all coming to an end at last. The room was silent, except for an opening door outside and the whimpering of a pained mutt.

"I think I may have a solution."

The aspiring detective shuffled past the two men and left the room, closing the door behind him. They both looked stunned.

"What on Earth is he doing now?"

Gregson turned to me for an answer, but I was just as lost as them. I simply shrugged. I noticed that the two pills were no longer on the table. The next thing we knew, Sherlock had returned to us, with our neighbour's terrier struggling to walk beside him.

"In here, boy." He said with no emotion.

"I knew it. The boy is completely mad." Lestrade muttered.

Sherlock lent down, and with a soft pat on the animal's head, he held out his hand with a single pill resting in his palm. The mutt took it at once. Either it was underfed or too desperate in its pain to care what it was eating. Sherlock mattered his fingers through its fur and we waited. Nothing happened, beside the dog patting breathlessly.

"Hmm… I wonder."

Sherlock quickly took out the second pill and true enough, the dog took it without complaint. This time, the dog reacted strangely. At first it sounded like it was choking, then its breath became even more strained. It flopped down on the carpet as if falling asleep under its weight. I couldn't believe it. The dog's weak pants had ceased, and the poor thing didn't move again.

"Sherlock… what the hell?" I said in my disbelief.

"Our neighbours were just on their way to have the poor thing put down. I guess we have saved them a trip." Sherlock stated calmly.

Gregson was grinning.

"Now this is a development." He said with a sudden excitement.

Lestrade on the other hand, looked as disgusted as I did.

"You may want to explain this to your neighbours." He said.

"I did tell them that Watson was fond of dogs and wished to say goodbye."

I stared at him with open eyes.

"Well we certainly did that, didn't we!?" I shouted.

"Not only that. I have just found the last piece to the puzzle!" Sherlock proudly announced.

Clearly the dead animal at his feet didn't faze him at all. His brazen willingness to do such a thing startled me, but after the last couple of weeks I had known him it probably shouldn't have. I dared hope he wouldn't do such a thing to me for the sake of one of his cases. I could only hope.

Lestrade lent down and studied the mutt, confirming its death for himself.

"So this is how Drebber died? Why would he take such a pill without a struggle?" The puzzled detective asked, still focused on the deceased pet at his feet.

Sherlock's pacing had increased exponentially, but he didn't appear to be thinking, oh no. I believed her already had his answer.

"Gentlemen. What is the greatest revelation we have discovered here?" he asked us all, yet chose to turn his gaze towards me.

I had no answer.

"That you still insist on playing games? If you know what this means, pray tell." Gregson demanded sternly.

I saw Sherlock's witty smile reappear, with a quick glance to his side out of view of the two men. He reveled in knowing the answer whilst they wondered about in the dark.

"Think not on what has happened to this poor creature. What you should think on is the very opposite, the very absence of a startling event."

"Oh, dear God…" Gregson blurted under his breath.

Although his wording seemed patronising, I was starting to get what Sherlock was driving at.

"Two pills." I said suddenly, with little to evaluate on the statement.

"Yes, Precisely! It isn't the fatal pill we should be looking at, but the presence of a harmless placebo. The events that took place in that decrepit house are brought to light by the previous contents of this bottle," he waved it in front of the detectives. "One pill is harmless, the other, quite deadly. Why would our victim take one without a struggle? Simple. He had a choice."

Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and laid it down on the table, alongside the small bottle.

"So he took it deliberately? Is it some sort of twisted game on the murderer's part?" Gregson asked, disgusted.

"Gentlemen, there will be no more murders. This 'game' was indeed twisted, but it was with a vendetta. One that I feel has ended. At least, the culprit thinks it has," Sherlock pushed the bottle across the desk gently with one finger. "Choice… two paths to take. One safe, the other fatal… but which is which? What does it take to go down that dangerous path, I wonder? Who do you come out of it as, in the end? With a doctor's life ruined by a stranger, there can only be one answer for the death of Lucy Stangerson. Murder. And then, revenge."

Sherlock stared at me suddenly.

"You're rambling again, boy." Lestrade interrupted.

"Apologies." Sherlock answered calmly, turning his back to me.

Before we could continue, our attention was grabbed by two weak knocks on the door. It opened with a creek, revealing the wrinkled face of our landlady.

"Oh, sorry to interrupt boys, but there is a sweet little lad at the door. He says he wants to see Sherlock."

My roommate's eyes shot open and his grin grew wider.

"Please excuse me. Gregson, could I speak to you alone for just a moment?"

The two detectives looked at each other with mutual scowls.

"What is this about? You can say whatever it is to the both of us."

"Oh, I fear not. This is quite delicate I'm afraid. Once we are done we can get back to the matter at hand. It will make us one step closer to catching the culprit."

Gregson reluctantly agreed.

"Now just wait here!" Lestrade protested, but his colleague was already out the door. "Just what is going on here!?" he asked me, as if I was meant to hold the answer.

The whole thing was surreal. _Young lad_ , I thought. Maybe it was one of Sherlock's 'spies'? If that was the case, maybe he knew where the murderer was. I stood up and lent against the table, only to stumble upon something strange indeed. Sherlock hadn't left his phone on the desk. It was mine.

"What was the devil doing with my phone?!" I shouted angrily.

I drew back the curtain, but no one was in sight in the street below. I looked down at my phone and noticed that my screensaver had been changed. My brow scrunched up in utter confusion. He'd done something, I knew it. The new image depicted an alley of some sort, and at the bottom were three words.

 _"Ham and eggs?"_ I read to myself.

The small bottle was in front of me.

"A choice…"


	9. Chapter 9 - Avenging Angel

My phone rang.

A short while had passed and still the image left on my phone pestered my every thought. Surely, I hoped, Sherlock's call would alleviate all that.

"Hello? Where are you? Lestrade doesn't look too pleased."

My description of the man was not unfounded. Two officers took notes by the door as he addressed them sternly, each aware of the situation with Gregson and equally wishing they were anywhere else.

Sherlock gave no answer.

"Hello?"

Again, No answer came. All that could be heard was a single sigh and a deep humming.

I hung up, assuming he had pocket dialed me. I was left flustered and unknowing on what to do when the same number called back almost immediately. I gathered the strength to move my thumb and listen on. I heard Sherlock sigh. For certain, it was the same thoughtful noise he had made continuously in the pass when thinking on the case, much to my annoyance.

"You alright back there? You keep sighing." Spoke a voice I didn't recognise.

"It's nothing, driver. Just thinking about a friend of mine."

Driver? Where on earth was Sherlock off to? I had learnt quickly that he was one to depart at a moment's notice, but this time it was too strange. His call and the changes on my phone made that clear. I left the detective discussing something with his subordinates, closed my bedroom door behind me and listened on. All I could interpret from Sherlock's actions was that he wanted me to hear this.

"In trouble are they?" The driver asked. His voice was unclear past the hum of the car.

"Sort of. They have been hurt, you see, something from their past. It keeps coming back to them. Round and round it goes, like a ring."

There was a moment of silence.

"Uh-huh." The man said, seemingly uninterested now.

"It's hard to say anything without hurting them. Only they know what's going on in their head, what barriers they've put up… what demons they carry," The driver didn't answer. "Just up here, there is a café nearby."

A café? Had he found a lead, I thought. Unless… it was something else. A call left for me to hear, a seemingly useless image on my phone…

"Ham and eggs… the old crone." I whispered.

I was about to leave my room when my foot collided with a small box protruding from under my bed. I knew what was inside, yet there was now a small note sticking out of the lid.

 _What may happen today, we might need this._

It was Sherlock's handwriting, and the ink was fresh enough to leave a small smudge when I touched it. My heart began to pound so fast I thought I would pass out. My father's pistol had been decommissioned, and Sherlock knew that. He wasn't one to forget anything. I slid the box back under my bed and rushed to the living room, only to find the detective gone. No car was outside and only Mrs Hudson remained to inform me on what had happened. All she knew was that Lestrade had left to find his colleague Gregson.

I paced and paced, mirroring the very action that had driven my nerves to a detestable state. I felt like the weight of the case had been slammed purely on my shoulders, as if I was suddenly some great part of this hidden scheme of his. Was it his twisted way of drawing me back in? I hated the notion, and yet I could not escape it. I was meant to do something, but what? He had left me with nothing to go on, nothing but a note and the image on my phone.

 _If he was in trouble, he could well need my help._

With that thought, something stirred in me. All logical thoughts turned into a rush of adrenaline, and soon the box under my bed was empty. I knew if I ran, I could be at the café in minutes. I took off with my father's firearm in my back pocket, concealed by my shirt. My phone remained in my hand with Sherlock's crackled words continuing from wherever he had hidden his own.

"I guess I just hope that he will find his way eventually," Sherlock said. "That is all we can do. Hope – hope that we can bring a change from the events of our past, for the sake of our future. Hope drives us to our final destination, after all. In your case, quite literally."

The call ended. I cursed him. Whatever he was doing, it was a stupid and dangerous thing, I was sure. He had been brazen enough to converse with the murderer over the wedding ring, and then he took off with nothing but cryptic messages and a phone call that chilled me to the bone. I found myself progressing faster and faster still, driven on by something more than fear. It was strange indeed, and my heart pounded on. Little thought of what I would do when I arrived at the café came to mind, for I was fully devoted to the moment. There was no time to think on what I was to discover.

Fate decided that I would not reach the café after all. In the alley through which we had pursued the nimble crone was a parked taxi. Two figures stood alone in the grim confines of the isolated street.

One held a gun to the other.

I had to focus on not panicking. I held my hand to my mouth in an attempt to stop any involuntary sound from escaping, lest I drew attention to myself. My phone was away now, and my fingers rested against the harsh brickwork as I concealed myself around the corner. Only one voice between them sounded familiar.

"Clever. Such a clever punk, aren't you?" The gunman's voice was American. "I read about you, helping out the cops. I couldn't help but find out who you were. After our chat at the coffee shop, I knew they were closing in. But you, you were intriguing."

"I see we have a shared interest in pretense, though mine is of a less crooked intent."

My roommate spoke with such lack of the fear that burned at me. I couldn't fathom if it was hidden to a degree that was unrecognisable, or if he really was so confident of his abilities that it didn't faze him. My hand fell slowly to my back pocket.

"You don't know a damn thing about any of this, kid! You say you know who I am, but these people!? They were scum, plain and simple as that. If there was justice in the world, they would have died and been left to rot below us long ago, and Lucy would still be where she belongs… with me."

I knew the name. It was the woman from the photograph. The owner of the wedding ring.

"True, I may not know the pain that brought you here, but I know what people brought an end to the woman you loved. I know of the wounds she carried from the man she was forced to call husband, and the last place they brought her to. I understand all of it, sir." Sherlock's voice was not judging in the slightest. My fear dissolved into confusion, until the man's next words.

"Turn around."

My breathing became rapid. I couldn't let this happen. If Sherlock had left those messages for me, then maybe this was my time.

Sherlock did as the man said, his head bowed.

"Put it down!"

They were confronted by the sight of me holding my father's pistol, aiming it at the man's chest, my arm's struggling to stay straight. He was startled and began to turn his own weapon in my direction. As quick as a flash, Sherlock held out his arms.

"Calm yourselves! There is no need for any of this. Good sir, you did not intend for any of this to go as far as it has. This boy is an innocent. He has lost someone dear to him too, and he is only trying to protect me."

My weapon would not stay still, even with both hands gripped firmly on it. I stared at the other man with an unbreakable gaze. It had been a great desire of mine since this madness had begun that I would never see him face to face, but now that I could see the culprit, I couldn't turn away. He was just a man. No monster was he. This was no image of a hardened criminal with no shred of a soul. He was just a person brought to heel by the life he had led. One hand gripped his weapon, and I could see that his arm was equally failing to hold still.

"Please sir. Lower your weapon." Sherlock requested calmly.

"Why should I? Your friend doesn't look like he intends to."

"He will. I promise you that."

"Promises!? I need more than that. All I have ever had are promises. I couldn't keep any of them, and none I received were ever anything more than attempts to prove how pathetic any chance I had of a decent future ever was."

The task of recording Sherlock's words in this present is a monumental one. My surroundings had been carried off in a tempest of emotions until only I and the murderer were left in the void. His words however, are as easy as remembering this morning.

It was kill or be killed, gun to gun, with no knowledge between us as to the nature of our weapon, real or not. Was this what my father had in his last moments? He was an army doctor, and knowing that I had always pictured him on the field of duty, attending to a fallen comrade when some wicked fool had taken it upon himself to end his life, and leave me and my mother to a world of torment. The truth of this would never be known to me. As I felt the pistol in my grip in its decommissioned state, I couldn't help but feel that lies had been stripped away from it. My own father could have done the very same thing to the enemy, evil or no. Ending a life was ending a life, and even a man's way of life and intentions leave their killer no less than that. I didn't want to see my father the way he could have been. The sight of Enoch Drebber came back to me, and all I could do was give in to it all.

The gun fell as I lowered my arms. I looked at the killer no longer and waited, but no sharp pain or deafening noise came for either of us. The next time I looked across the alley, the man's own weapon was resting on the floor. His face was pensive and did little more than switch gazes between me and Sherlock Holmes.

"Watson," Sherlock said with a gentle voice. "Let me introduce you to Mr Jefferson Hope."

The dank alley way was suddenly flourishing with flashing lights. Doors clicked open as men came rushing towards us.

"Your timing is admirable Gregson. Our mystery, at last, has come to an end."

The man was cuffed immediately and gave no resistance to that fact. I was hasty to return my father's weapon to my back pocket in fear of their unknowing reprisal. As events took place, I was surprised to find Sherlock beside me, watching on. It was almost comforting for the first time for him to be there.

"You have a lot of explaining to do at the station, sir." Gregson said to our culprit.

"There will be no need of that. I am quite happy to tell it all right now. I am not one for delaying, and neither is nature."

Gregson growled, but Sherlock was quick to step in.

"Actually Gregson, this is quite true. Give the man his time, for I fear it is of the essence."

The detective was visible annoyed, but still a tad curious at the same time.

"John here is studying to one day become a doctor. Here is a chance to see how far your knowledge carries you so far. Could you identify this for us?"

Sherlock approached Jefferson Hope, and I followed suite.

"Could you place a hand to the man's chest for us?"

The same shake we had both experienced in our moment of locked weapons was still present in Mr Hope, but his face showed no sense of fear or unease. With him cuffed, I risked touching his chest, above his heart. The man made no objections. I realised in time that this was not of nerves at all.

"This… he has an aneurysm!" I gasped.

"An aortic aneurysm if I am correct," Sherlock added.

"That's extremely dangerous." I said brazenly. Jefferson showed no care for our words and was unmistakably aware of the condition, and its threat.

"Indeed," Sherlock began to pace between myself, and the police force with their culprit. "At first I had thought it part of his ploy during our first meeting out the café, a man so enthralled in his performance as an old woman that he was able to deduce the level of an uncontrolled tremor, but as our meeting progressed the more I came to realise its involuntary nature. It was evident again when we had the pleasure of being driven to Scotland Yard by our culprit."

The moment came to me in an instant. The shaking hand of the man I had handed the money to, it had been too small to be significant to me. Such a trifling thing, and yet to Sherlock it had been as relevant as the ring at Lauriston Gardens.

"I recognised the license plate as identical to the vehicle from the picture I had taken outside Halliday's private hotel", Sherlock continued. "A strange coincidence, and yet the discovery of your vehicle was of another nature. On two instances the culprit was able to escape in a moment's notice, each time in a taxi with no questions asked. A taxi that must have belonged to that person. It was the very vehicle that had been outside in the rain the night of Enoch Drebber's murder. Your vehicle's size matches that of the shape left on the dry road. One of many, yes, but your tires carry the same distinct mud from the overgrown and unkept street quite unlike those around it. Lauristen Gardens is, after all, a street oft disregarded."

The excitement Sherlock would carry himself with explaining his theories had been utterly replaced with a determination of furious deductions. It was a great performance of his mind and all I could do was watch on, locked in the mystery unfolding before me.

"Once your vehicle had been located, all it required was to learn of your usual routes throughout the city. A simple idea, yet time consuming for one individual. Fortunately, there was not one individual on the case," Sherlock did not evaluate on this point, but I was sure of what 'network' of little detectives he was referring to. "When the time came, and with all pieces to the puzzle put in place, all it took was this moment. All that was needed was a simple wave to the murderer, a taxi journey, and my friend Gregson ready to pounce."

After all that, Sherlock Holmes really did have it all planned. Yet, why was I there? It didn't make sense to me.

"It's… unbelievable," I whispered. "You did it."

"Elementary, Watson." He turned to me with a smirk.

"But… why? Why do it? Who was Lucy?" I asked Hope. What I had heard before revealing myself was still playing on my mind.

"I know the police don't care why I did it. All they want to know is that I ended their lives. If you think I'm a beast for what I did, then know that I am a saint compared to the dead I have left this week," The coldness with which he said such words proved his conviction to me. "We were to be married, my sweet Lucy and me. Her father trusted me, and we had known each other from a young age. But where she had grown up, and where I had come from were our weaknesses. In his desperation for money, her father had been dragged into an unsavoury group, one with an extreme conviction. To mark the bond, he was forced to marry her to one of their members. The idea of my Lucy being dragged to the alter with that monster Stangerson… I had never felt anger like that, but it didn't end there."

An officer took notes, and Sherlock and I listened on intently.

"He beat her. He raped her. He put her in hospital. There was nothing in him that can prove to me that he was a human being. When her father tried to escape his debt to them, when he continually denied them, they took matters into their own hands. They don't punish the person who betrays them, they are worse than that. When I heard of Lucy's death… I knew what they had done, Drebber and Stangerson. Two trusted doctors, experts in their profession. No one would suspect them. It was as easy as that for Stangerson to kill the woman he had sworn to be with before God… that Demon!"

The man's temper rose, and I was shocked to see blood begin to trickle down his nose.

"And so, unable to let the men that had taken your beloved get away with their falsehood, you hunted them to the ends of the earth." Sherlock interjected.

"Those scum were not men!" Jefferson spat. "They got wind of me tracking them, they fled like the rats they are until I found them here. I worked as a taxi driver to map out the city and find the best place to trap them."

"And that is when you caught these rats in your trap," Sherlock said. "In fear of their lives, Drebber and Stangerson split up. Feeling the reaper knocking, Drebber turned to drink to cope."

"The fool was always a drunk." Hope corrected him.

"His nature caused him to make advances on an innocent young woman at Charpentier's Boarding Establishment, and in that chaos you took advantage. He called a cab to visit a pub, and in the driver's seat was the very man he had been fleeing from. Isolated and forgotten, you drove the man you hated to Lauristen Garden's, and gave him a choice."

Hope snickered.

"The idiot didn't even know it was me until we were alone in that room. I was going to shoot him, but… I couldn't. Even after everything, I couldn't pull the trigger."

His face was pained, and I found myself able to sympathise.

"So instead, you put Drebber in a position where life hung in the balance for both of you. Two pills, only one survivor. You gave him the choice that Lucy had no pleasure in receiving, one leading to life and the other death. Your nose is dripping, sir." Sherlock told him.

Hope wiped his face with one finger and gazed at his own blood.

"It is here, where you watched Drebber die before your eyes, choking on his own mistake. You were the man with nothing to lose, a man dying a slow death. Knowing this, you wrote a deceiving message upon the walls with your own blood."

"Rache…" Gregson whispered.

"It was a quick idea. I hoped it would give me more time to finish what I had started." Hope spoke.

"That being to hunt the last person who had wronged you."

"I gave Stangerson the same choice, but the coward he was, he tried to escape. I couldn't hold back as I had with Enoch. He was a drunken fool out to get what he could. Stangerson on the other hand, he was a demon. I pulled out my knife and tore into his chest. A bullet was too slow. He had to feel it for what he did to Lucy. If I'm honest, I was surprised to find that his heart was beating at all," Hope chuckled through gritted teeth. "My mistake was leaving the ring behind. I'd shown it to Drebber, screamed at him. I'd tried to get through to any humanity he had for him to feel what he had done to Lucy. He cried, and I was surprised. He kept begging for forgiveness and shouting 'I am sorry' over and over. I was sure it was the drink. Either way, that didn't matter. Sorry and pleas don't bring back the dead. I wonder how he would have reacted had Lucy pleaded to him."

Every time hope spoke of Lucy, his voice fluttered from stone cold to that of pained whimsy. I could tell that the good memories he had were poisoned by her eventual fate. I thought of my father, and as much as I tried to see past it, all memories were poisoned.

"You may well have escaped with your deeds had you not been so careless. Lucy's own wedding band was too dear to you to let it lie in dankness. You attempted to retrieve it, only for you to be discovered by a local officer. Your performance as a drunk was as convincing as the old crone that, I'll admit, even deceived me for a time. Yet, it did not avail you. It was my tug, and pull you towards me it did."

The more I listened on, the more the idea of Sherlock Holmes being a charlatan became utterly ridiculous. His boasting that I had taken as arrogance did little to describe the true genius on display. That moment, all became clear. I had doubted him from the beginning, but in his triumph I saw someone that I had grown a seed of admiration for. If only a seed.

"Twenty years… so long it's been, but at long last, I can pass on knowing I kept my promise to my dear Lucy. My condition won't have me be free for long, and no prison cell can compare to where I am going. I may not see my beloved in the new life, but I'll die knowing that for any punishment awaiting me, the darkest pit of hell has swallowed those bastards whole, and I brought them to it. You're just a kid, so you still have a lot to learn. I hold that I am just as much an officer of justice as you wish to be."

I took one last look at the man called Jefferson Hope. He was not at all how I had imagined our killer. In his own way, he believed he was doing the justly thing, and I felt myself struggling to blame him for it.

"Sherlock… he did it for the woman he loved."

"He did Watson. That he did. The human nature makes it hard to brand him a criminal, but we have not the right, nor ability to overlook his crime. The law is clear, and often that clarity stings."

I watched the team of officers take Hope away. Gregson looked quite pleased with himself.

"Why did you only bring Gregson and not Lestrade?" I asked my roommate, the alley now returning to its original bleakness.

"I couldn't risk having their competitive nature obscure the last piece to the puzzle. Don't worry, Watson. I'm sure they will both take the credit for all that has gone on."

It didn't seem fair, and yet I could see the unmistakable glimmer of a smile breaking through Sherlock's calm demeanour. It was a job well done.

"I… Lucy… it doesn't seem right, any of it. He did what any of us would do if pushed far enough." I said, overcome by the emotional strain of all that had happened in the last week.

"It's like a cauldron," Sherlock answered. "That anger can boil over if not held back, and burn everyone around you. It's natural to lament the loss of someone we love, and easy to become blind to the people that remain to help."

Sherlock began to walk away, his hands behind his back.

"What are you saying, Sherlock?" I shouted after him, lost in his last words.

With a sly look, he turned just enough to draw eyes on me.

"You're not carrying your cane, Watson."

A sharp sound escaped my lips, but nothing more. I felt vulnerable all of a sudden. I hadn't even thought of it in my rush. It was a first.

"Well… all this excitement has me parched. Boscombe Valley Café should still be open for an hour more. I have a great craving for ham and eggs!"

I stood alone by the taxi, with my roommate disappearing into the evening fog. Two ways remained, one in front and one behind me. Sherlock's world of madness was just that, and I was much better off stepping back and returning to the safety of Baker's Street, grabbing my father's cane and drifting off to sleep in my warm bed.

Why did I follow on into the mist?


	10. Chapter 10 - The Conclusion

I gathered my senses in the following days. It had all seemed only half real, like I was looking through fractal lenses where only part of what I could see was my real life. Each morning that came, I brought myself to the idea that it had been a dream the previous night, but Sherlock consistently put an end to such frail hope. He, and the news of course.

The inevitable news confronted me that morning. The courts would have no need of our testimony, for Jefferson Hope had been found dead in his prison cell before his trial could even begin.

"And so the bubble bursts, so to speak." Sherlock quipped as he drank his morning coffee.

"All that, and he died anyway. Was there any point to his capture?" I asked, disgruntled with the outcome.

"It wasn't our place to deal judgement to Mr Hope this time. He had, after all, already been marked for that. We brought the truth to light, Watson, and saved some unfortunate soul from a false sentencing."

Sherlock had a point, and that made me feel more comfortable with it all.

"Whatever the ending of this tale, Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death." I heard Sherlock snicker.

"It wasn't them that caught him."

"But they will still take the credit, I assure you. What we do in this world is of little consequence. What others believe we do, that is the true legacy that awaits us," Sherlock lent back on the sofa. "I really have to congratulate you Watson."

I was surprised by this.

"Me? What did I do but fumble about and complain. This isn't my life, Sherlock. I didn't ask for this. I just want… to become a doctor."

I watched his inquisitive gaze, his eyebrow raising slowly.

"I have taught you of my methods, my friend. Often it is the most curious artifacts present that makes a case simpler, not more complex. In your case, I fear you have failed to see those present in your own life."

I turned back to the TV, not wanting to make eye contact.

"I don't know what you mean." I answered meekly.

I heard the floorboards creek as he returned to his feet.

"Then let us analyse the evidence." He said with a raising excitement.

"This isn't one of your cases. This is me."

"I fail to see the difference." Sherlock said.

I waited to hear what he had to say. I didn't shut him up this time. I'd grown a respect for his methods.

"The events of the last week would lead the onlooker to one conclusion. A talented young man led a bumbling police force to a correct conviction, once again restoring balance to a horrid situation. Such an onlooker would give me more credit than is deserved."

I hadn't expected his sudden modesty. Not from him.

"The grand scheme to follow is to work backwards," He continued. "Like with our case, following events from their conclusion to their cause is required here. When we arrived at Lauristen Gardens, I immediately took note of the environment, everything from the dried patch on the road to the marks of clay, rotting shrubbery and mud left to mark out the vehicle that had been there. On seeing the body, it was from what I had noted outside that I could deduce the reasoning for the two men being there, but it was only by working backwards to the events of Charpentier's that I could follow our culprit's trail."

"I… think I follow you." I interrupted.

"Good. With the belongings left on the body, I could further deduce that it was not a robbery, leaving two possibilities. It was personal or political. A trained assassin would not leave their mark all over the dusty floor as our perpetrator did, so it must have been personal. An argument over a woman came to mind. I had intended on pursuing this theory further, but the ace in the hole was of course, the wedding ring. The artifact that did not fit was the very thing that led our trail closer to the truth."

He was starting to make sense to me, putting it like that. I nodded and listened intently, which he seemed to take pleasure in.

"Discovering the victim's marital status and past relationships was paramount, but in the case of Enoch Drebber, ultimately a dead end, no pun intended. Then took place the unexpected, an event that must be taken into account in every case, for you see, a detective must be able to work on his feet. The old crone, and the murder of Stangerson were our events, and together they worked to bring us closer to Jefferson Hope. The photograph of Lucy alongside Stangerson, his connection to Drebber, and the pills were the final pieces I needed."

I was stunned at how his logic all came together.

"It's… magnificent!" I exclaimed.

"And that my dear Watson, is why I have dedicated myself to it. The beauty of it all is the ending is always finite, it is never in flux. The result must stay the same, but many a tale can bring you to it. It is the perfect place to start, and your journey to the truth must take you backwards. For instance, the guilt of Arthur Charpentier seemed sound. He had motive and an opportunity, but as we both saw, it was a falsehood. And yet, even trained detectives went down this path, for it was routed in facts. Such is the danger of missing any clues. With all this said and done, there remains our last mystery."

I frowned.

"And what is that?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"The case of the aspiring 'Doctor' Watson. We must, as I have announced, work backwards. You claim you fumbled about uselessly. I say different. Our conclusion was the arrest of Jefferson Hope, but to come to this, we must look at your contributions to the case. Firstly, Jefferson's actions upon my reveal could have gone in many ways, were it not for my courageous roommate."

I scoffed.

"I pointed a decommissioned gun at him. How is that courageous?"

"He didn't know this. It was not that lone act, but the fact that you came to such a rescue for someone you had recently come to blows with, and have known only for a short while. It was not me that persuaded him to lower his weapon. It was in seeing a kindred spirit in you that he made the right decision. You were someone that has suffered a similar tragedy, and he recognised that. You were the first to lower your gun."

I shook my head, refusing to believe I was in any way part of this case.

"You make it sound so brave." I remarked.

"Have you forgotten what else you have done? I once told you that I am not infallible, and that statement is true. It was not I that discovered the ring at the crime scene, it was you. The crucial piece of evidence was found by John Watson, not Sherlock Holmes." He said triumphantly.

"They would have found it after moving the body." I corrected him.

"Maybe, but by that time its significance to the case would have been lost. Warm candles and bloodied walls didn't lead to our culprit. Your evidence did."

It did feel good to admit to that idea. It was a long way from convincing me however.

"Our final piece to this elusive puzzle can be found at the very beginning. It was you that convinced me to join this mystery in the first place. It seemed trivial to me, but you saw otherwise. You may have done so with the intent of proving me a fraud, I deduced that much, but you brought about the events of the last week, Watson. You led us to the truth."

He had known from the beginning. Why was I surprised? It should have been obvious to me that he could see my attempts to prove him a stuck up charlatan.

"In spite of recent events, I confess that I would not have missed this case for anything. Thanks to you, I didn't. And this at last, leads me to my final deduction."

His face became a huge grin, and then a sudden shift to sternness stole my attention.

"What…" I whispered.

"I deduce… that you are John Watson."

I laughed before covering my mouth. I couldn't help it. It was so sudden and nonsensical a thing to say. Of course I was… his face. I can still remember that moment. His eyes were so expressive and not at all like the analytical machine I had become use to. He looked sympathetic towards me, if only for my sake.

"I'm…" I couldn't say anymore.

"Since I first met you only a short few weeks ago, I have taken a great interest in seeing what you could not see. The great artifact in your life. The thing that stands out as the outlier, and yet it leads to the very truth seemingly hidden to you."

His gaze fell to the cane resting by my chair. Old emotions flooded back to me, as did an image of my father leaning against it.

"No doubt when you hold it, your mother sees him, and that feels you with a happiness you don't understand. Keeping an heirloom is understandable, but a cane, a gun, all of his medals? I dare say most of his belongings are in that room," He indeed pointed to my bedroom at Baker Street. "My final conclusion, is that this week, you have proven yourself to be John Watson, not a man you have pretended to be. You can make him proud without being him, and I'm sure you will, my friend. John Watson helped me to solve this mystery, and he didn't need a cane to lean on when it came to its conclusion."

His expression had returned to that analytical machine he usually was, and I couldn't help but wonder if any emotion really did come from him, or if it was a performance. Like the old crone… like me.

"Make a promise to do him proud, not one to carry on his fight. The dead do not cry out for vengeance."

Sherlock slowly moved away and took hold of his violin as if nothing had happened that morning. I looked away towards the fireplace and let tears fall. My father's cane was not on my mind.

Music swelled as the news played on. All credit for the arrest had gone to Lestrade and Gregson. Sherlock Holmes was mentioned, but his contribution was made out to be as relevant to the case as the officer that had brought the letter to Baker Street.

"This isn't fair… you did it all." I said, secretly wiping my face.

"Did I not say from the beginning? The result of our lecture in crimson was to get them a testimonial!" Sherlock answered.

It wasn't good enough. I may not have agreed with Sherlock Holmes' lifestyle, but I wasn't fool enough to let his genius slide. Maybe I felt grateful to him. Either way, the world would know.

"Someone told me that a good way to express yourself when you struggle is to write a journal, or diary. I've decided. I'm going to write a blog. A blog about you."

Sherlock looked surprised indeed.

"A blog about me? Now isn't that a thing!" He continued to play.

"The world has to know the truth, like you said. I'll make sure they do, and who knows, maybe you will have a greater chance to show the world what you are capable of with other cases."

I made a genuine smile for the first time in years, with no pretence or fake joy to be found. Sherlock's playing became faster and rose in pitch.

"Maybe I will, Watson. They may hiss at me, but I can cheer myself when I look upon my accomplishment."

The End.

Young Holmes and Watson will return in:

The Signing of the Four


End file.
